^  >f«?1W??^l:  i:-      ;..    :          /       |i  .    • 

miitm 


LOAFING  DOWN 
LONG     ISLAND 


"  You  felt  as  if  you  were 

somewhere  in  France." 


LOAFING  DOWN 
LONG  ISLAND 


BY 
CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

WITH  DRAWINGS  BY 
THOMAS   FOGARTY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO, 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


TO 

JIM,  ALEC,  PEB,  GORDON 

and  ERNEST 
COMPANIONS  ALONG  THE  WAY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING   ...  3 

II  REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 32 

III  ALONG  SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS      .      .  49 

IV  GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK      ...  85 
V  FROM  SOUTHAMPTON  TO  MONTAUK  POINT  .  1 1 1 

VI     AMERICA'S      MAD      PLAYGROUND,      CONEY 

ISLAND 129 

VII  SAG  HARBOR  AND  THE  NORTH  SHORE     .      .159 

VIII  THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  SLICE 189 

IX  OYSTER  BAY  AND  ROUNDABOUT  ROSLYN  .      .   201 

X  DINNER  AMONG  THE  STARS 209 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

You   felt   as   if   you   were   somewhere    in 

France Frontispiece 

Queensboro  Bridge 5 

But  we  spurned  all  such  advances,  kindly  as  they 

were  meant 14 

Guttersnipes  are  bathing  along  the  shore  ...  19 
A  cafe  or  two  that  once  might  have  proved  an  oasis 

in  this  wasteland 25 

And  such  clam  chowder  as  it  was ! 33 

I  was  awakened  by  the  crowing  of  a  cock  .  37 
A  pair  of  stout  young  women,  puffing  and  blowing 

up  a  little  rise  of  land 41 

Idleness  and  I 45 

We  hailed  several  cars.  They  did  not  stop  . .  -53 
We  bumped  contentedly  along,  getting  dustier  and 

dustier 60 

The  one  sluggish  waiter  on  duty 65" 

There  were  many  little  roads  tempting  us  out  of  the 

beaten  paths 73 

Blue  Point 78 

There  are  eyes  watching  you 96 

Our  hearts  ached  for  them 102 

The  glowing  sands  of  pleasure 113 

What  a  place  for  the  allotted  days  of  one's  span  .  119 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

With  its  great  eye  to  the  limitless  ocean  .     .      .      .124 

Montauk  Point .      .    127 

The  wonderful  city  of  magic     .  .    134 

A  slice  of  Coney  Island 139 

Toboggans  that  splash 147 

You  wouldn't  stop  now  for  the  world      .      .      .      -154 
Water  is  to  a  landscape  what  eyes  are  to  a  human 

face       .  164 

Shelter  Island 167 

Caruso's  voice  coming  from  a  phonograph     .      .      .179 

Riverhead 186 

We  grew  mighty  weary 191 

Smithtown 197 

Roslyn 203 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 
CHAPTER  I 

ON    THE    DIFFICULTIES    OF    WALKING 

WHEN  I  speak  of  the  difficulties  of  walk- 
ing, I  do  not  refer  to  the  infirmities  of 
age,  to  flat  feet,  or  to  avoirdupois.  Not  at  all. 
I  mean  that  it  is  hard  indeed  in  these  rushing 
times  to  go  afoot,  even  on  the  most  distant  by- 
roads, without  being  considered  eccentric.  Peo- 
ple stare  at  you  as  though  you  were  some  kind  of 
freak  or  criminal.  They  cast  suspicious  glances 
your  way,  never  dreaming  that  perhaps  you  pre- 
fer your  own  feet  as  a  means  of  pleasant  locomo- 
tion. 

I  asked  a  certain  friend  if  he  would  not  ac- 
company me  on  my  weekly  jaunts  down  Long 

3 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Island.  1  could  not  arrange  to  go  for  one  lengthy 
stay,  and  neither  could  he,  I  knew;  so  I  thought 
the  next  best  thing  was  to  do  it  by  piecemeal 
rather  than  not  at  all,  and  I  planned  to  save  time 
by  walking  a  certain  distance,  following  a  road 
map,  return  by  train  on  Monday  mornings,  and 
then  take  a  train  out  again  to  the  spot  where  I 
had  left  off  the  previous  week.  That  seemed 
practical,  novel,  yet  simple  and  well  worth  while. 
To  live  with  a  Blue  Bird  at  one's  door,  and  never 
know  it,  seems  to  me,  as  it  seemed  to  Maeterlinck, 
the  height  of  folly.  I  would  discover  the  Blue 
Bird  that  was  so  happily  mine,  and  hear  its  song 
on  rosy  summer  mornings,  three  and  even  four 
days  at  a  time,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

Well,  my  friend  turned  to  me  and  instantly 
said: 

"My  car  is  out  of  order." 

"But  I  did  not  mean  to  go  in  a  car,"  I  as 
quickly  answered. 

"Why,"  he  replied,  looking  at  me  as  though  I 
had  gone  quite  mad,  "how  else  would  we  go  9" 

"On  foot,"   I  bravely  made  answer,  yet  re- 
4 


ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING 

alizing  that  this  confirmed  New-Yorker  would 
never  think  the  same  of  me  again.  And  it  was 
so.  I  shall  not  forget,  if  I  live  a  hundred  years, 
his  final  disgusted  glance.  If  anything  further 
was  needed  to  crush  me  utterly,  I  do  not  know 
what  it  could  be. 

But  one's  friends  are  not  the  only  difficulty  that 
stand  in  the  way  of  a  loitering  gait.  I  found, 
fortunately,  just  the  right  companion  for  my 
first  journey,  and  when  I  told  a  few  young  col- 
lege fellows  of  my  plan,  fellows  who  were  free 
for  the  summer,  they  asked  if  they,  also,  could  n't 
be  booked  up  for  certain  Thursdays  until  Mon- 
day; and  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  a  line  of  ap- 
plications, as  though  I  were  handing  out  coupons 
instead  of  the  possibility  of  aching  feet  and  per- 
spiring brows. 

On  the  first  day  when  we  fared  forth — it  was 
with  a  friend  named  Jim — we  had  no  sooner 
started  to  cross  the  great  Queensboro'  Bridge, 
which  hangs  like  a  giant  harp  over  the  East  River, 
drawing  Long  Island  into  a  closer  brotherhood 
with  New  York,  than  we  had  offers  of  lifts  from 

7 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

total  strangers.  Yet  they  say  Manhattan  is  a 
cold  city !  We  never  found  it  so,  at  least  not  on 
that  wonderful  July  evening  when  we  started  out 
with  scrip  and  staff;  for  we  had  decided  that  as 
we  were  going  to  do  so  old-fashioned  a  thing  as 
walk,  we  would  carry  old-fashioned  parapher- 
nalia, called  by  pleasant,  old-fashioned  names. 
Bundle  and  cane  ill  comported  with  so  quiet  a 
pilgrimage  as  ours  was  to  be.  We  would  imagine 
ourselves  travelers  in  Merrie  Old  England  in  a 
season  now  sadly  gone.  We  would  wear  old 
clothes,  and  take  not  one  article  with  us  that  we 
did  not  actually  need.  No  burdens  for  our  city- 
tired  backs;  only  the  happy  little  necessary  im- 
pedimenta, such  as  a  toothbrush,  a  razor,  a  comb, 
an  extra  shirt  or  two,  and  the  one  tie  we  wore. 
And  of  course  a  book.  I  chose  Hazlitt's  "Table 
Talk,"  Jim  took  George  Moore's  "Avowals,"  all 
the  spiritual  food  we  needed. 

It  takes  no  little  courage  to  walk  over  a  bridge 
that  leads  out  of  crowded  Manhattan.  Not  that 
you  want  to  stay  in  the  thundering  city;  but  this 
is  a  dangerous  way  to  get  out  of  it  alive.  You 

8 


ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING 

feel  like  an  ant,  or  like  one  of  those  infinitesimal 
figures  in  a  picture  which  gives  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  "our  village."  To  discover  your  own  lack  of 
importance  in  a  busy,  whirling  world,  I  would 
prescribe  the  perils  of  walking  in  and  immediately 
around  New  York.  Never  does  one  feel  so  small, 
so  absolutely  worm-like.  If  you  wish  to  pre- 
serve your  life,  your  day  is  one  long  series  of 
dodges.  Pedestrians  are  not  popular  with  mo- 
torists, and  virtually  every  one  is  a  motorist  now- 
adays. If  you  walk  up  the  Rialto  of  a  morning, 
you  are  convinced  that  every  one  on  earth  wishes 
to  become,  or  is,  an  actor.  If  you  edit  a  popular 
magazine,  you  know  that  every  one  has  literary 
ambitions.  But  if  you  walk  over  Queensboro' 
Bridge  or  any  of  the  other  gateways  that  lead  out 
into  the  country,  you  are  certain  that  there  is  not 
a  human  being  except  yourself  who  does  not  own 
a  car. 

Where  do  they  come  from,  these  gorgeous  and 
humble  machines?  And  whither  are  they  going? 
How  many  homes  have  been  mortgaged  in  order 
that  Henry  and  Mary  may  take  a  trip  each  week- 

9 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

end4?  What  necessities  of  life  have  been  relin- 
quished so  that  the  whole  family  may  speed  to 
the  seashore  at  the  first  touch  of  warm  weather? 
It  is  an  exhilarating,  healthful  pastime,  but  I 
have  only  one  friend  who  motors  to  my  liking — 
that  is,  at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles  an  hour.  My 
other  acquaintances  employ  chauffeurs  who  surfer 
from  the  great  American  disease,  speed,  and  they 
are  whizzed  here  and  there,  often  against  their 
wills,  I  grant  you,  and  they  expect  me  to  care 
for  this  abominable  way  of  traveling.  The  hill- 
sides rush  by;  you  see  nothing,  you  hear  nothing 
save  the  voice  of  the  siren,  and  you  arrive  at  your 
destination  a  physical  and  mental  wreck,  with 
eyes  that  sting  and  ears  that  hum.  No  sooner 
is  your  body  normally  adjusted  than  luncheon  is 
over,  and  you  are  told  to  get  back  into  the  car 
that  you  may  all  rush  madly  to  the  next  town. 
There  is  a  strange  and  inexplicable  desire  in  every 
chauffeur  I  have  ever  seen  to  overtake  the  machine 
just  ahead  of  him.  Every  turn  reveals  a  line  of 
motors  dashing,  as  yours  is,  to  Heaven  knows 
where;  and  if  you  toot  your  horn  and  pass  one 

10 


ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING 

triumphantly,  there  is,  as  always  in  life,  another 
victory  to  be  won  the  instant  you  overcome  the 
immediate  obstacle.  Why  not  sit  back  and  let 
the  other  fellow  pass  you*?  But  no  one  will  in 
America.  It  seems  to  be  a  long,  delirious  race  for 
precedence,  and  motoring,  instead  of  being  the 
delight  it  should  be,  has  become  a  nightmare  to 
me.  One  of  these  days  I  am  going  to  have  a 
car  of  my  own,  run  it  myself,  and  go  where  and 
when  I  please;  for  no  one  loves  motoring  more 
than  I  when  it  is  really  motoring  and  not  a  sud- 
den madness.  That  is  why,  on  this  occasion,  I 
preferred  the  jog-trot  afoot;  and  that  is  why  Jim 
and  I  marched  forth  on  a  certain  day,  with  minds 
free  from  tire  troubles,  and  no  intention  of  get- 
ting anywhere  in  particular  until  it  suited  our 
royal  convenience.  We  had  thoroughly  made  up 
our  minds  on  that.  We  would  lunch  or  sup 
where  it  suited  our  whim,  and  we  would  n't  look 
at  our  watches,  but  would  seek  to  allay  our  hun- 
ger only  when  we  felt  healthily  hungry.  And 
we  knew  we  would  sleep  all  the  better  for  so  real 
a  spirit  of  freedom. 

11 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

That  first  afternoon  we  walked  to  Long  Island 
City  over  the  bridge,  for  we  wanted  the  thrill  of 
getting  out  of  town  on  foot,  not  through  the  more 
comfortable  process  of  a  train  or  a  motor.  Be- 
sides, it  would  savor  somewhat  of  cheating,  if  we 
started  out  on  a  walking  tour  seated  in  a  com- 
muter's coach.  Yet  it  was  not  always  our  in- 
tention to  walk.  We  made  up  our  minds  that 
sometimes  we  would  steal  rides,  or  beg  for  them, 
or  take  a  train  over  an  uninteresting  part  of  the 
country.  And  if  I  could  locate  my  slow-driving 
friend  this  summer,  I  intended  to  ask  him  to  loaf 
with  me  in  his  car  sometime. 

There  is  one  charming  thing  about  New  York : 
you  can  go  anywhere  and  dress  as  you  please  and 
attract  not  the  slightest  attention.  Our  knicker- 
bockers and  a  duffle-bag  were  nothing  to  anybody  ; 
neither  was  the  Japanese  staff  I  carried,  which 
some  friends  had  just  brought  to  me  from  the 
land  of  Nippon.  People  are  too  preoccupied  to 
give  you  even  a  cursory  glance. 

We  knew  there  was  apt  to  be  nothing  at  all 
interesting  just  over  the  bridge;  for  we  had  mo- 

12 


ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING 

tored  that  way  too  frequently,  and  Long  Island 
City,  I  was  well  aware,  was  nothing  to  see.  It 
was  like  a  poor  relative  of  the  metropolis,  a  per- 
son that  a  rich  man  paid  to  remain  hidden  away 
in  the  country,  shabby  beyond  belief,  and  with  no 
knowledge  of  city  ways,  none  of  the  coquetry  of 
young  and  smiling  sophisticated  Miss  Manhattan. 
It  was  dusk  when  we  started  to  cross  the  great 
bridge,  and,  as  I  have  said,  motors  were  cluttered 
at  the  entrance  and  were  doubtless  thick  upon  it, 
running  like  a  continuous  black  chain  to  the 
island.  During  the  War,  soldiers  often  stood  at 
this  entrance  of  the  bridge,  waiting  to  be  given  a 
lift;  and  this  may  be  the  reason  why  so  many 
motorists  still  think  of  every  pedestrian  as  worthy 
of  a  ride,  and  why  it  was  that  so  often  we  were 
invited,  as  we  strolled  along  this  open  pathway, 
to  move  more  swiftly  to  the  other  side.  But  we 
spurned  all  such  advances,  kindly  as  they  were 
meant;  for  on  one's  first  day  out,  the  legs  are  in 
good  condition,  and  there  is  a  certain  pride  in 
wishing  to  strut  it  alone  without  even  the  aid  of 
one's  staff. 

15 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

The  sky-scrapers  loomed  in  the  growing  dark- 
ness, as  we  proceeded  on  our  way,  like  a  Baby- 
lonian vision;  and  one  by  one  the  lights  blos- 
somed in  tall  windows,  until  the  city  behind  us 
was  a  vast  honeycomb  of  beauty,  with  the  river 
like  a  silver  girdle  surrounding  it.  Ahead  of  us 
smoke-stacks  belched  forth  their  black  substance, 
and  one  pitied  the  folk  who,  having  worked  all 
day  in  glorious  Manhattan,  must  turn  at  evening 
to  the  hideous  prospect  beyond  the  river,  when 
they  might  have  remained  in  this  jeweled  place. 
Gasometers  reared  their  horrid  profiles,  and  chim- 
neys, like  a  battalion  of  black  soldiers,  stood  mo- 
tionless in  the  growing  darkness.  It  was  to  such 
a  place  the  people  were  surging,  leaving  glorious 
New  York.  Jim  and  I  loitered  long  on  that 
bridge. 

All  of  us  who  live  in  New  York  have  motored, 
at  one  time  or  another,  over  Queensboro'  Bridge; 
but  how  few  of  us  have  walked  its  delectable 
length!  Like  all  Manhattanites,  we  leave  such 
pleasant  experiences  to  the  foreigners  who  come 
to  our  shores.  But  even  they  have  not  discovered 

16 


ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING 

it  as  they  may  within  a  few  years.  There  are 
benches  along  its  pathway,  and  here  one  may 
pause  and  sit  in  the  sunset,  as  if  one  were  in  a 
stationary  airplane,  and  view  the  vast  city  spread 
out  in  a  wonderful  pattern  below.  There  are 
glimpses  of  little  parks,  and  the  spires  of  the 
cathedral  are  silhouetted  against  the  background 
of  the  west.  Guttersnipes  are  bathing  along  the 
shore,  and  you  wonder  why  rich  folk  do  not  pur- 
chase houses  on  this  river-bank,  where  they  might 
have  their  own  private  pavilions  and  a  view  that 
can  hardly  be  matched.  What  is  the  matter  with 
New-Yorkers'? 

Then  there  is  Blackwell's  Island,  with  its  piti- 
fully blind  windows.  It  must  be  hard  enough 
to  be  confined  on  an  island  without  the  added 
horror  of  tightly  closed  and  sealed  shutters  of 
heavy  iron.  Not  content  with  keeping  prisoners 
segregated,  they  shut  out  any  chance  of  a  view — 
or  perhaps  we  would  all  want  to  go  to  Blackwell's 
Island !  The  keepers'  houses  are  beautiful  in  de- 
sign, and  it  gives  one  a  sense  of  omnipotence  to 
sit  above  them  and  see  them  from  the  air — peo- 

17 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

pie  walking  or  running  hither  and  thither  on 
graveled  pathways,  ships  floating  by  on  each  side 
of  them,  and  a  look  of  peace  about  a  place  that 
must  be  anything  but  peaceful.  What  a  fine 
residential  spot  this  would  make,  and  how  sad 
it  is  that  it  must  be  utilized,  a  veritable  garden- 
spot,  for  the  safe-keeping  of  the  criminal ! 

Like  most  beautiful  things,  Manhattan,  at 
once  the  ugliest  and  the  loveliest  city  on  this  con- 
tinent, gained  by  distance;  and  I  could  not  help 
remembering,  as  I  looked  back  upon  it  now,  its 
hideous,  mean  little  streets,  its  pitiful  and  cruel 
slums,  its  unsavory  odors;  and  as  I  wandered  away 
from  it,  I  knew  it  could  never  deceive  me.  I 
knew  it  too  well.  On  its  granite  heart  I,  like 
many  another,  had  suffered  and  wept,  though 
also  I  had  laughed  there ;  and  some  lines  began  to 
sing  in  my  head,  and  over  on  Long  Island,  much 
later  that  night,  when  we  had  reached  the  real 
country,  I  put  them  down  on  paper. 

We  left  the  city  far  behind ; 
Ahead,  the  roadway  seemed  to  wind 
Like  something  silver  white. 

18 


iM> 


Guttersnipes  are  bathing  along  the  shore" 


ON  THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  WALKING 

For  dusk  had  long  since  dwindled  down, 
And  now  the  trees  were  strangely  brown, 
And  dogs  barked  in  the  night. 

The  moon  was  up,  a  monstrous  pearl, 
As  fair  as  any  mortal  girl ; 

Stray  cars  went  singing  by. 
Far,  far  away  the  city  gleamed 
Like  something  that  the  heart  had  dreamed — 

A  golden  butterfly. 

It  sprawled  against  the  velvet  night; 
It  could  not  rise  and  take  its  flight, 

Although  its  wings  uncurled. 
And  you  and  I  were  glad  to  go 
And  leave  its  prison,  even  so, 

And  pace  the  lonelier  world. 

O  city,  with  your  splendid  lies, 
That  look  of  wonder  in  your  eyes, 

We  left  you  far  behind ; 
And  though  you  stared  with  horrid  stare 
Into  the  moonlit  heaven  there, 

'T  was  you,  not  we,  were  blind ! 


21 


CHAPTER  II 

REALLY    GETTING    STARTED 

IT  is  curious  how,  the  moment  you  set  out  to 
do  anything  in  this  troubled  world,  you  im- 
mediately encounter  opposition.  When  I  told 
certain  friends  that  I  intended  to  loiter  down 
Long  Island  in  July,  they  held  up  their  hands  in 
horror,  like  my  motor  acquaintance,  and  instantly 
asked:  "Why  that,  of  all  places?  And  why  in 
summer?  You  will  be  overcome  by  the  heat; 
you  will  be  taken  sick,  and  what  you  began  with 
enthusiasm  will  end  in  disaster."  And  this,  too: 
"But  what  will  you  do  for  clean  linen,  and  how 
do  you  know  the  inns  will  not  be  too  crowded, 
and  you  may  not  be  able  to  get  a  room?" 

I  could  go  on  indefinitely,  giving  a  litany  of 
friendly  counsels  and  objections.  Why  people 
are  so  interested  in  telling  us  what  we  must  not 
do  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me.  It  was  as 

22 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

if  they  were  to  take  these  little  journeys,  not  I. 
Having  made  up  my  mind  to  do  anything,  I 
usually  find  a  way  to  do  it;  and  one  learns  by 
hard  experience  that  if  one  takes  the  advice  of 
this  or  that  friend,  one  ends  by  sitting  at  home 
when  a  delectable  trip  is  planned.  So  I  waved 
all  objectors  aside,  and,  though  smiled  upon  in 
some  cases  and  almost  sneered  at  in  others,  I  set 
forth  as  I  determined,  trusting  to  Heaven  that 
it  would  not  pour  rain  on  that  first  evening  out, 
so  that  my  ardor,  as  well  as  my  clothes,  would  be 
instantly  dampened,  and  I  would  appear  rather 
ridiculous  to  the  few  people  who  saw  us  off. 

But  it  did  not  rain;  and  for  an  afternoon  in 
late  July  it  was  gloriously  cool.  So,  said  Jim 
and  I,  the  Fates  were  with  us;  we  had  won  at 
least  the  favor  of  the  gods. 

Like  every  great  city,  New  York  is  not  easy 
to  get  out  of.  It  is  like  nothing  so  much  as  a 
huge  scrambled  egg,  or  a  monstrous  piece  of  dough 
that  not  only  covers  the  dish,  but  runs  over  the 
sides  of  it;  and  you  can  ride  seemingly  forever 
in  the  subway  or  on  the  elevated  road  and  still  be 

23 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

within  the  confines  of  this  mighty  place,  and  won- 
der, like  the  old  lady  who  was  standing  in  a  train 
to  the  Bronx,  if  anybody  had  a  home.  "Ain't 
nobody  ever  goin'  to  get  out?"  you  remember  she 
asked  at  length,  weary  of  hanging  on  a  strap. 

Beyond  the  Queensboro'  Bridge  there  is  a  flat 
and  de'solate-enough  looking  stretch  of  roadway, 
partly  artificial;  a  piece  of  land  that  was  put  there 
for  purposes  of  utility  only,  so  that  motorists, 
pedestrians,  and  trolley  passengers  may  make  as 
speedy  an  exit  as  possible  from  the  roaring  town. 
You  wonder  how  anything  could  be  quite  so  for- 
lorn. It  is  as  sad  as  an  old  torn  calico  skirt;  and 
to  add  to  the  sadness,  a  cafe  or  two  that  once 
might  have  proved  an  oasis  in  this  wasteland 
stares  at  you  with  unseeing  eyes.  The  blinds 
have  long  since  been  closed,  and  the  windows  are 
mere  ghostly  sockets.  Lights  used  to  gleam  from 
them  at  evening;  but  now  the  old  gilt  signs  that 
told  of  cool  and  refreshing  beer,  dip  in  the  dusk, 
and  hang  as  a  king's  crown  might  hang  from  his 
head  after  the  Bolsheviki  had  marched  by.  It 
gives  one  a  sense  of  departed  glory.  There  is  a 

24 


I 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

tatterdemalion  effect  in  these  suspended  haunts  of 
revelry  that  brings  a  sigh  to  the  lips.  Nothing 
is  so  tragic  as  these  innocent,  deserted,  road-houses, 
save  possibly  a  table  filled  with  empty  wine- 
glasses after  a  night  of  festivity — and  the  knowl- 
edge that  there  is  no  more  wine  in  your  cellar. 

Let  me  make  my  first  confession  right  here  and 
now.  I  must  pause  to  tell  the  anguishing  truth 
that,  disheartened  at  once  by  this  bleak  prospect, 
and  knowing  that  Flushing,  with  its  pretty  main 
street  and  park  would  quickly  delight  our  spirits, 
Jim  and  I  boarded  a  packed  trolley  so  that  we 
might  speedily  pass  this  wretched  jumble  of  noth- 
ing at  all. 

Moreover,  we  had  no  sooner  begun  to  lurch 
down  the  line,  crushed  in  with  dozens  of  working 
people  on  their  tired  way  home,  than  we  dis- 
covered we  had  taken  the  wrong  car.  Instead 
of  going  straight  to  Flushing,  we  were  on  the 
way  to  Corona,  which  I  had  vaguely  heard  of 
once  or  twice,  with  no  real  knowledge  as  to  where 
it  was.  We  found  we  could  transfer  there,  and 
would  not  waste  so  much  time,  after  all. 

27 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

It  gives  you  a  feeling  of  extreme  youth  to  be 
lost  so  near  a  city  where  you  have  always  lived, 
and  Jim  and  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  what 
we  called  an  "experience."  I  was  glad  we  had 
made  the  mistake,  for  at  the  cross-roads,  if  the 
inhabitants  of  Corona  will  forgive  me  for  calling 
two  intersecting  streets  of  their  humming  little 
town  that,  I  ran  into  a  young  fellow  standing  on 
the  corner  who  regaled  me,  as  we  waited  for  our 
car,  with  the  gossip  of  the  village.  He  had 
knowledge  of  every  motion-picture  star  in  the 
world,  it  seemed,  and  he  loved  talking  about 
them.  There  were  prize-fights — amateur  ones, 
of  course, — about  every  evening,  and  he  himself 
had  taken  part  in  many  a  tussle,  and  was  so  proud 
of  his  strength  that  he  invited  me  to  put  my  hand 
on  his  arm  to  convince  me  of  the  iron  sinews 
therein.  I  must  say  that,  having  done  so,  I  would 
have  staked  all  I  had  on  him  in  any  bout.  He 
was  of  that  lithe,  panther-like  type  which  is  so 
swift  in  the  ring,  and  he  told  me  so  many  happy 
little  stories  of  himself  as  a  pugilist  that  Jim 
and  I  took  quite  a  fancy  to  him,  and  even  went 

28 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

so  far  as  to  ask  him  to  dine  with  us  at  White- 
stone  Landing,  whither  we  were  bound.  He  had 
one  of  those  engagingly  simple  personalities  that 
win  you  at  once,  and  he  said  he  would  like  to 
come,  oh,  very  much  indeed,  but  he  had  dined 
sometime  ago  (people  in  the  country  always  seem 
to  sit  down  to  "supper"  at  five  o'clock  or  so) 
and,  well,  ahem !  he  did  n't  quite  know  what  he — 
And  he  started  to  step  back  from  the  curb  where 
he  had  been  talking,  and  glanced  over  his  shoul- 
der so  many  times  that  finally  my  eye  followed 
his,  and  I  saw  what  J  should  have  seen  before — 
a  pretty  girl,  of  course.  And  of  course  she  was 
waiting  for  him. 

And  what  did  he  care  about  two  stupid  stran- 
gers and  their  fine  shore  dinner  when  he  had  this 
up  his  sleeve  all  the  while*?  I  told  him  how 
sorry  I  was  that  we  had  detained  him  even  a 
second.  He  smiled  that  winning  smile  of  his, 
darted  across  the  road,  and  seized  his  girl  around 
the  waist  in  the  tightest  and  most  unashamed 
squeeze  I  have  ever  seen,  and  was  off  down  the 
street,  his  very  back  expressing  his  happiness. 

29 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Well,  Bill  Hennessy,  I  '11  never  see  you  again 
in  this  mixed-up  world,  but  I  certainly  wish  you 
well,  and  if  our  paths  ever  do  cross  again,  I  hope 
to  see  several  strapping  little  Hennessys  around 
you. 

Our  trolley  came  at  just  the  right  moment 
thereafter,  for  we  felt  strangely  lonely  there  on 
the  corner,  with  Bill  and  his  joy  gone  down  the 
street,  and  as  we  sagged  into  Flushing  we  grew 
hungrier  and  hungrier.  Yet  we  determined  we 
would  walk  through  the  scented  dark  to  White- 
stone  Landing.  Bill  had  told  us  the  exact  road 
to  take;  said  he  'd  often  walked  there,  and  now  I 
knew  with  whom! 

It  was  all  he  said  it  was,  a  lover's  lane  to  make 
the  most  jaded  happy.  A  path  for  pedestrians 
ran  beside  the  main  road  most  of  the  way,  soft 
to  the  feet,  and  peaceful  in  the  enveloping  night. 
The  moon  had  come  out  brilliantly,  and  the  sky 
was  studded  with  stars.  It  was  getting  on  to 
nine  o'clock,  and  except  for  once  when  I  camped 
out  in  Canada,  I  did  n't  know  where  our  beds 
would  be  that  night.  It 's  a  glorious  sensation, 

30 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

such  ignorance.  We  were  aware  that  country 
taverns  closed  early,  as  a  rule,  off  the  beaten 
tracks;  but  this  only  added  zest  to  our  leisurely 
walk. 

It  took  us  much  more  than  an  hour  to  reach 
Whites  tone  Landing,  which  is  right  on  the  water, 
and  we  found  a  place  kept  by  a  Norwegian 
woman;  not  very  much  of  a  place,  I  must  admit. 
There  were  ugly  chromos  on  the  wall  of  unbe- 
lievably ugly  ancestors;  but  when  you  have  come 
several  miles  on  foot,  and  suddenly  emerge  from 
the  darkness  feeling  very  tired  and  hungry,  al- 
most any  light  in  any  window  is  thrillingly  beau- 
tiful to  you. 

"It 's  pretty  late  for  supper,"  was  her  greeting, 
and  our  hearts  sank;  but  she  must  have  seen  that 
we  were  woefully  disappointed.  A  hopeful 
"but"  immediately  fell  from  her  lips.  "But 
maybe  I  can —  Say,  do  you  like  hamburger 
steak  and  French  fried  potatoes  and  clam  chow- 
der?" 

Did  we?  We  followed  her  right  into  her  cozy 
and  clean  kitchen,  where  her  husband  sat  in 

31 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

placid  ease,  as  the  husbands  of  so  many  land- 
ladies sit  always,  and  the  odor  of  that  ascending 
grease — how  shall  I  ever  forget  it*?  It  smelt  as 
I  hope  heaven  will  smell. 

And  such  clam  chowder  as  it  was!  Thick, 
juicy,  succulent,  it  dripped  down  our  throats 
like  a  sustaining  nectar,  some  paradisial  liquid 
that  an  angel  must  have  evolved  and  mixed.  I 
dream  of  having  again  some  day  in  a  certain 
Paris  cafe  a  soup  that  thrilled  me  when  I  first 
tasted  of  its  wonder;  but  never,  never  will  any- 
thing equal,  I  am  convinced,  Madame  Bastiens- 
sen's  clam  chowder. 

We  were  given  beds  that  night — and  how  good 
the  sheets  felt! — for  the  infinitesimal  sum  (do  not 
gasp,  dear  reader!)  of  one  dollar  each.  And  the 
next  morning  I  was  awakened,  only  a  few  miles 
from  rushing  Manhattan,  by  the  crowing  of  a 
cock;  and  when  I  looked  from  my  window,  hap- 
pily energetic  as  I  had  not  been  for  many  morn- 
ings, I  saw  wild  roses  climbing  over  a  fence,  and 
caught  glimpses  of  the  gleaming  little  bay,  with 
rowboats  out  even  this  early.  Whitestone  Land- 

32 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

ing  is  a  place  of  house-boats.  I  had  some  friends 
once,  I  remembered,  who  lived  on  one  all  summer, 
and  commuted  to  the  city  from  it.  There  is  a 
boat-house,  with  a  bathing  pavilion  here,  and  a 
little  steamer  plies  between  Whitestone  and 
Clason  Point  every  half-hour,  and  excursionists 
go  over  for  picnics  under  the  trees,  with  heavy 
lunch-baskets  and  half  a  dozen  children  at  their 
sides. 

Jim  and  I  determined  to  get  an  early  start, 
and  after  a  breakfast  that  was  almost  as  good  as 
our  supper  of  the  evening  before  (nothing  could 
ever  taste  quite  so  fine),  we  set  off  for  Bayside  by 
a  back  road,  which  Mr.  Bastienssen  roused  him- 
self sufficiently  to  tell  us  of.  He  was  a  pale, 
weak-eyed,  blond  little  man,  who  seemed  resent- 
ful of  most  visitors,  though  common  sense  should 
have  told  him  that  they  were  exceedingly  neces- 
sary if  he  was  to  continue  his  life  of  large  leisure. 

Now,  there  is  nothing  I  like  more  than  a  back 
road,  particularly  in  these  days  of  hurry  and 
scurry,  and  it  was  a  perfect  morning  to  walk  any- 
where. The  air  was  like  wine,  it  was  not  a  bit 

35 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

hot,  and  we  made  such  an  early  start  that  we  met 
few  travelers,  and  none  at  all  on  foot  for  some 
time.  The  road  curved,  after  we  passed  a  little 
bridge,  and  woods  on  the  right  almost  lured  us 
exploringly  into  them.  We  did  venture  to  go 
out  of  our  way  to  see  the  dewdrops  on  the  leaves, 
but  as  the  sun  was  kindly  that  morning  and  could 
not,  in  July,  be  depended  upon  to  remain  so,  we 
thought  it  better  to  get  along.  A  farmer  was 
tilling  the  ground  near  by,  and  the  smell  of  the 
earth  was  good  to  our  nostrils,  poor  paving-stone 
slaves  that  we  were;  and  out  in  a  vast  potato 
patch  the  rest  of  the  farmer's  family  were  bend- 
ing over  the  plants,  as  serene  as  if  they  were 
hundreds  of  miles  from  anywhere.  Here  the 
road  turned  charmingly,  and  Jim  and  I  were 
positively  singing  at  our  taste  of  exultant  liberty, 
drinking  in  our  joy,  and  wondering  why  we  had 
never  thought  of  coming  out  like  this  before. 
Suddenly,  directly  around  the  turning,  two 
strange-looking  men  came  running  toward  us, 
swinging  their  arms  in  fiendish  fashion.  They 
were  hatless  and  coatless,  and  their  shirts,  as  they 

36 


"  I  was  awakened  by  the  crowing  of  a  cock  " 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

came  nearer,  were  seen  to  be  open  at  the  throat. 
They  kept  close  together,  and  one  of  them  was 
huge  beyond  belief,  while  the  other  was  smallish 
and  not  given  to  quite  the  frantic  gesticulations 
of  his  comrade. 

"Maniacs !"  I  whispered  to  Jim,  not  a  little 
alarmed;  and  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  read  that 
there  was  an  asylum  somewhere  near  this  spot; 
though  on  second  thoughts  it  was  only  a  military 
fort.  Nevertheless,  to  see  two  men  running 
amuck  this  early  of  a  morning,  confounded  us, 
and  we  thought  we  had  better  get  out  of  their 
way. 

I  could  see  that  Jim  was  as  uncomfortably 
frightened  as  I,  though  he  would  not  say  so.  As 
the  strangers  came  nearer,  he  dodged  to  one  side, 
as  did  I ;  and  then,  as  they  passed  us  without  even 
a  glance  in  our  direction,  we  both  burst  out 
laughing. 

"A  prize-fighter,  with  his  trainer,  practising 
shadow-boxing!"  cried  Jim,  who  knows  a  lot 
about  such  things.  "And  I  '11  swear  it  was 
Dempsey." 

39 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  I  answered,  rather  ashamed 
of  my  inability  to  recognize  such  a  celebrity  of 
the  ring.  "At  any  rate,  I  'm  sure  of  one  thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"It  was  n't  Jack  Johnson."  And  I  had  to 
hurry  ahead,  for  fear  Jim  would  give  me  a  pu- 
gilistic punch. 

Having  met  two  pedestrians,  we  of  course  im- 
mediately met  two  more;  just  as,  when  you  go 
down  a  lonely  stretch  of  road  in  a  car,  through 
some  mysterious  process  three  or  four  machines 
will  suddenly  find  themselves  bunched  together 
at  the  most  narrow  and  inconvenient  spot.  This 
time  they  were  a  pair  of  stout  young  women,  in 
sweaters  of  some  heavy  material,  puffing  and 
blowing  up  a  little  rise  of  land,  most  obviously 
striving  to  reduce  their  girth.  77  faut  soufrir 
pour  etre  belle!  They  were  not  a  whit  em- 
barrassed at  running  into  us, — not  literally,  thank 
heaven! — and  went  on  their  mad  way  as  though 
we  did  not  exist,  turning  neither  to  right  nor  left. 
I  remember  distinctly  that  though  this  was  at 

40 


1 A  pair  of  stout  young  women,  puffing 
and  blowing  up  a  little  rise  of  land  " 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

the  loneliest  of  cross-roads,  a  sign  informed  any 
one  who  might  pass  that  this  was  Fourteenth 
Street.  On  one  side  the  farm  stretched  for 
countless  acres;  on  the  other  the  bay  loomed  large 
and  mirror-like  in  the  sun,  and  ahead  of  us  was 
only  an  occasional  cottage,  rather  threadbare, 
down-at-the-heels  dwellings,  some  of  them,  which 
reminded  me  of  old  coquettes  unwilling  to  give 
up,  and  flirting  with  any  passer-by.  Fourteenth 
Street,  to  any  New-Yorker,  conjures  up  the  pic- 
ture of  a  busy  thoroughfare;  and  so  this  sign  of 
blue  and  white,  hanging  above  an  empty  stretch 
of  overgrown  weeds,  brought  a  smile  to  my  lips. 
It  was  on  Fourteenth  Street,  as  a  child,  that  I 
had  been  taken  to  see  Santa  Claus  in  a  depart- 
ment-store window;  and  always  the  figure  is  as- 
sociated in  my  mind  with  dense  crowds  in  holiday 
spirits,  with  confetti  and  other  gay  reminders  of 
Christmas. 

It  was  at  another  turning  that  we  came  in  sight 
of  Fort  Totten,  while  across  the  water  Fort  Schuy- 
ler  stood  serenely  and  firmly,  and  I  knew  that 

43 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

City  Island  wandered  out  into  the  sound  a  little 
farther  up  on  the  other  side,  close  to  Hart's 
Island. 

I  wanted  to  go  to  Fort  Totten;  but  we  were  in 
no  hurry,  and  I  imagined  that  it  must  be  time 
for  luncheon.  True  to  our  compact,  we  had  n't 
looked  at  our  watches  or  asked  the  time  along  the 
road.  But  we  had  been  going  steadily  for  three 
or  four  hours,  I  was  certain,  and  Jim  suggested 
that  we  sit  under  a  tree  for  awhile.  The  sun  was 
fast  mounting  the  heavens,  and  I  found,  at  a 
cross-roads,  just  the  spot  for  a  still  hour  or  so. 
We  had  brought  some  sandwiches  along,  and  there 
was  a  glen  below  from  which  I  could  hear  the 
water  gushing.  To  linger  a  bit  would  be  de- 
lightful. I  had  not  loafed  for  so  long  that  it 
would  be  quite  an  adventure  now.  As  I  dreamed 
on  the  grass,  I  began  to  think  in  rhyme,  as  one 
often  does  when  there  is  n't  a  thing  in  the  world 
to  worry  about;  and  before  I  knew  it  I  had  made 
this  simple  song  to  fit  my  mood : 

All  the  drowsy  afternoon, 
Idleness  and  I 

44 


"  Idleness  and  I " 


REALLY  GETTING  STARTED 

Dreamed  beneath  a  spreading  tree, 

Looking  at  the  sky. 
Ah,  we  let  the  weary  world 

Like  a  cloud  drift  by ! 

It  was  good  to  get  away 

From  the  town  of  men, 
Finding  I  could  strangely  be 

Just  a  lad  again, 
Hearing  only  water  sing 

In  the  neighboring  glen. 

When  had  Idleness  and  I 

Taken  such  a  trip? 
When  had  we  put  by  before 

Heavy  staff  and  scrip, 
Meeting  on  a  summer  day 

In  such  fellowship? 

Long  and  long  ago,  may  be, 

I  had  dared  to  look 
For  a  whole,  glad,  sleepy,  day 

In  a  rushing  brook, 
Reading  in  the  haunted  page 

Of  the  earth's  green  book. 

Then,  forgetting  what  I  found 

In  the  volume  old, 
I  returned  from  solitude 

47 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Where  the  shadows  fold, 
Seeking  what  the  foolish  seek — 
Empty  joy  and  gold. 

Now,  grown  wise,  I  crave  again 

Just  the  simple  sky 
And  the  quiet  things  I  loved 

In  the  years  gone  by. 
We  are  happy  all  day  long, 

Idleness  and  I. 


48 


CHAPTER  III 

ALONG    SUNLIT    AND    MOONLIT    ROADS 

T  TAVING  rested  royally  by  the  road,  we 
•*•  -••  fared  on  to  Bayside;  but  first  we  turned 
in  at  a  pair  of  big  gates,  thinking  we  were  en- 
tering some  rich  man's  estate,  and  caring  not  at  all 
whether  we  were  desired  or  not.  "But  I  hope  we 
won't  be  taken  for  Bolsheviki,"  Jim  said. 

A  man  in  uniform  moved  here  and  there,  but 
we  did  n't  pay  much  attention  to  this  fact,  until 
a  building  loomed  ahead  of  us  that  could  not 
possibly  have  been  a  private  dwelling.  A  ser- 
geant and  a  corporal  sat  on  the  veranda,  and  as 
Jim  and  I  were  very  thirsty,  we  asked  for  a  drink 
of  water.  The  sergeant  immediately  took  us 
within,  where  it  was  dim  and  cool,  and  I  noticed 
some  barred  doors  immediately  in  the  center  of  a 
great  space.  There  was  a  painful  silence  all 

49 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

about,  but  as  I  went  into  a  little  side  room  to  get 
my  drink,  I  heard  a  click-click,  click-click,  as  of 
some  one  walking  up  and  down  with  a  cane.  I 
asked  the  sergeant  what  this  noise  could  be,  and 
pointed  to  the  barred  door,  and,  my  eyes  having 
become  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  I  saw  the  shad- 
owy figure  of  a  young  soldier  on  crutches  pacing 
up  and  down  the  corridor  of  a  huge  cell. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  in?"  the  sergeant  asked; 
and  when  I  said  I  would,  for  I  have  always  been 
interested  in  prison  conditions,  he  unbolted  the 
great  door,  and  the  one  occupant  of  the  place 
said,  "Good  afternoon,  sir,"  and  seemed  really 
glad,  as  I  suppose  any  one  in  his  situation  would 
be,  of  human  companionship.  He  was  lame,  and 
I  asked  him  how  it  came  about  that  a  boy 
wounded  in  the  war  should  be  undergoing  this 
punishment.  "Oh,  I  overstayed  my  leave,"  he 
said;  and  then  I  knew  we  had  come  right  in  to 
Fort  Totten,  having  left  the  main  road  when  we 
entered  the  gates. 

If,  ten  minutes  before,  any  one  had  told  me 
that  soon  I  would  be  talking  to  a  lame  and  im- 

50 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

prisoned  soldier  in  a  dark  cell,  I  would  have 
thought  him  mad.  There  Jim  and  I  had  been 
dreaming  and  drowsing  under  a  tree  in  the  pleas- 
ant sunshine,  and  all  the  while  this  lame  boy,  not 
a  hundred  yards  away,  had  been  confined,  with 
no  glimpse  of  even  "that  little  tent  of  blue  we 
prisoners  call  the  sky."  All  the  other  men,  he 
told  us,  were  out  in  the  fields  at  work;  but  he, 
because  of  his  lameness,  was  obliged  to  remain  in 
the  ghastly  cell.  The  penalty  of  courage  in  the 
war,  I  suppose.  A  strange  world,  my  masters, 
more  inexplicable  every  day  we  live  in  it!  But 
there  was  one  consolation:  he  was  receiving  the 
best  of  medical  attention,  and  he  told  us  he  had 
nothing  to  complain  of. 

There  is  a  lovely  walk  between  the  fort  and 
Bayside,  with  little  red  farm-houses  here  and 
there  and  more  austere,  rigorous,  dignified  homes 
as  you  approach  that  town.  The  road  curves, 
and  there  are  soft  paths  if  your  feet  begin  to 
ache;  and  I  remember  one  house,  down  by  the 
water,  with  a  splendid  row  of  Lombardy  poplars 
and  small  shrubs  and  bushes  like  giant  mushrooms 

51 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

forming  a  lane  to  the  bay,  a  bit  of  French  land- 
scape that  was  indeed  enchanting.  A  stillness 
seems  to  brood  over  this  part  of  the  island;  but 
suddenly  you  find  yourself  on  the  outskirts  of 
busy  little  Bayside,  where  many  actor  folk  live  in 
the  summer,  I  believe.  You  see  a  small  Italian 
villa  once  in  a  while — the  kind  of  little  home 
you'd  like  to  pick  up  and  put  in  your  pocket  and 
take  away  with  you,  it  looks  so  cozy  and  com- 
pact, so  like  a  house  bought  in  a  toy-shop. 

It  was  here  we  got  on  the  main  road,  where 
there  is  always  much  traffic,  and  where,  in  con- 
sequence, it  is  no  fun  to  trudge  along  on  foot. 
We  determined  we  would  ask  any  one  who  came 
by  for  a  lift,  and  we  hailed  several  cars.  They 
did  not  stop.  I  turned  to  Jim,  after  the  eighth 
or  ninth  driver  had  sailed  by  us,  and  said : 

"What  in  heaven's  name  is  the  matter  with 
us — or  with  them,  rather?  Surely  we  look  like 
respectable  piano-tuners,  at  least." 

A  flivver  came  along  just  then,  with  two  men 
on  the  front  seat,  and  a  perfectly  empty  back 
seat. 

52 


I 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

"This  will  do  nicely,"  we  decided;  and  I  put 
up  my  beautiful  Japanese  stick,  and  called  out, 
"Say,  won't  you  give  us  a  lift  to  Douglas  ton*?" 

But  they,  too,  sped  on.  We  could  n't  under- 
stand it.  They  had  proceeded  about  fifty  yards, 
when  we  noticed  that  they  slowed  up,  conversed 
a  bit,  and  then  deliberately  backed  in  our  direc- 
tion. We  ran  forward,  jumped  in,  and  thanked 
them. 

"But  would  you  mind  telling  us,"  Jim  asked, 
as  we  started  off  at  a  good  clip,  "why  you  did 
not  stop  for  us  at  once?" 

Our  new  friends  looked  embarrassed,  and  then 
one  of  them  offered : 

"Well,  to  be  honest,  we  each  have  a  pint  flask 
on  our  hip,  and  we  thought  you  might  be  federal 
agents." 

"We  may  wear  plain  clothes,  but  we  Jre  not 
plain-clothes  men,"  we  said,  and  laughed;  and 
then,  before  we  knew  it,  we  had  reached  Douglas- 
ton,  and  stopped  for  a  drink  of  water  at  a  cool- 
looking  well  I  saw  that  would  have  delighted  the 
soul  of  Pollyanna;  for  it  bore  a  neat  and  hos- 

55 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

pitable  sign  above  it,  reading,  "All  is  well." 
Just  a  mile  or  so  away,  on  the  water,  is  beauti- 
ful Douglas  Manor,  which  used  to  be  the  estate 
of  Mr.  George  W.  W.  Douglas,  a  wealthy  gentle- 
man who  evidently  had  a  consuming  passion  for 
trees.  In  1814  he  bought  this  extensive  prop- 
erty from  the  old  Van  Wyck  family,  to  whom  it 
had  come  down  as  a  grant  from  George  III.  The 
oldest  oak-tree  on  Long  Island  is  here.  Some 
one  was  going  to  cut  this  tree  down  recently,  in 
order  to  build,  but  a  man  with  a  great  sense  of 
civic  pride,  Mr.  James  Hoffman,  purchased  it  in- 
stead, and  now  it  is,  happily,  to  be  forever  pre- 
served. The  old  club-house  at  the  manor  is  the 
original  Van  Wyck  homestead,  and  a  beautiful 
building  it  is. 

In  1819  Mr.  Douglas  built  the  present  hotel 
in  Douglas  Manor,  which  was  his  residence.  He 
would  have  no  trees  disturbed,  and  the  sidewalks 
are  made  to  run  about  the  monstrous  umbrellas 
which  shield  the  houses  everywhere.  There  are 
fourteen  varieties  of  beeches,  and  about  twenty- 
five  different  kinds  of  evergreens,  some  of  them 

56 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

very  rare  specimens.  One  fernleaf  beech,  in  par- 
ticular,  is  considered  a  remarkable  arboreal  thing 
of  splendor.  It  must  be  about  a  hundred  years 
old.  In  the  manor  house  ancient  mahogany 
bookcases,  made  in  sections,  are  now  here.  And 
yet  there  are  those  who  say  that  sectional  book- 
cases are  a  comparatively  new  idea ! 

All  over  Long  Island  you  see  houses  with  won- 
derful old  shingles.  Would  that  we  could  get 
some  like  them  to-day!  There  is  a  feeling  of 
permanence  about  the  farm-houses,  and  some  of 
them  look  as  if  they  almost  resented  the  growth 
of  the  many  roads  around  them,  and  the  encroach- 
ments of  motors  chugging  and  clattering  by.  Yet 
they  manage  to  preserve  their  aspect  of  tranquil- 
lity, and  chickens  and  pigs  and  goats  loiter  on 
many  a  farm-house  lawn  not  many  miles  from 
New  York,  as  unconcerned  by  the  modern  spirit 
of  unrest  as  if  a  flivver  had  never  passed  the  gate. 
And  there  seems  to  be  no  real  poverty  on  Long 
Island.  You  can  walk  or  motor  for  miles,  and 
though  a  few  houses  will  look  shabby,  they  never 
bear  that  appearance  of  downright  slovenliness 

57 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

you  see  elsewhere.  There  is  always  a  garden, 
however  small;  and,  situated  as  it  is,  there  is  al- 
ways good  fishing  along  the  shores,  and  a  real 
livelihood  may  easily  be  maintained.  Before  the 
inevitable  arrival  of  the  millionaire,  Long  Island 
dreamed  its  days  away  in  happy  peace,  and  many 
a  prosperous  farmer  cannot  be  driven  away,  de- 
spite the  walled  and  formal  gardens  that  often 
come  to  his  very  threshold. 

We  had  been  captivated  by  Douglas  Manor — 
where,  by  the  way,  Jim  had  taken  a  swim — and 
were  loath  to  leave  it.  Good  friends  had  given 
us  a  fine  dinner  at  the  inn,  but  we  would  not 
spend  the  night,  determined  as  we  were  to  push 
on  across  the  island  as  far  as  Lynbrook,  begging 
or  stealing  rides  if  we  got  too  tired.  There  was 
not  much  of  interest  on  the  way,  but  with  day- 
light saving  there  were  still  many  hours  of  the 
afternoon  left.  It  was  a  sunlit  road,  with  turns 
and  shadowy  oases  now  and  then  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  our  walk.  We  got  as  far  as  the 
Oakland  Golf  Club  links,  when  we  found  we 

58 


"  We  bumped  contentedly  along,  getting 
dustier  and  dustier" 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

were  really  tired;  so  we  "hooked"  a  ride  on  a 
farm-wagon.  Maps  are  the  most  deceptive 
things  in  the  world.  I  love  to  pore  over  them, 
but  I  have  no  sense  of  direction  at  all,  and  when 
a  road  curves  I  never  remember  that  that  makes 
it  all  the  longer. 

The  farm-wagon  was  not  very  easy-going;  but 
beggars  cannot  be  choosers,  so  we  bumped  con- 
tentedly enough  along,  getting  dustier  and  dust- 
ier, and  not  caring  a  whit.  The  farmer  was 
strangely  uncommunicative  and  seemed  to  take 
no  heed  of  us  at  all.  It  was  as  though  we  were 
a  pair  of  calves  he  was  taking  to  market;  yes, 
dear  reader,  I  know  there  is  another  obvious  com- 
parison that  could  be  made.  When  there  came 
a  sudden  turning  to  the  right,  we  jumped  off, 
and  thanked  him ;  but  he  did  n't  turn  his  head 
an  inch.  We  saw  that  his  farm  was  just  at  the 
turning,  a  simple-enough  place,  and  presently  a 
boy  who  must  have  been  his  son  ran  to  the  fence 
and  made  strange  signs  to  him;  and  we  realized 
that  our  silent  host  had  been  a  deaf-and-dumb 

61 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

man.  No  wonder  he  did  n't  mind  having  his 
home  at  a  busy  cross-roads.  They  say  the  motors 
whiz  by  here  in  battalions  of  a  Sunday. 

We  got  another  lift  later  on.  Many  towns, 
like  Floral  Park,  do  not  live  up  to  their  names; 
they  are  floral  only  from  the  railway  station, 
though  that  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  since  many 
villages  are  particularly  hideous  where  the  trains 
come  in. 

It  is  curious  that  on  the  outskirts  of  Lynbrook, 
which  is  a  dreary,  commonplace,  drab,  uninter- 
esting little  town,  there  should  be  a  miraculously 
beautiful  inn.  It  is  as  though  a  shabby,  poor 
old  lady  suddenly  pulled  out  a  wonderful  French 
lace  handkerchief  in  a  dingy  street,  and  exclaimed, 
"Just  look!"  This  inn  (alas!  no  longer  do  we 
use  the  charming  word  "tavern")  is  off  the  beaten 
track,  and  one  has  to  know  of  it  to  reach  it;  but 
we  wanted  to  get  there  for  a  bite  of  food,  since 
our  hike  had  made  us  desperately  hungry  again. 
That  is  one  of  the  many  joys  of  tramping,  or 
staying  out  all  day  in  the  open  air:  you  eat  like 
a  giant.  And  you  sleep  like  a  baby. 

62 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

Beneath  an  arbor  outside,  in  the  moonlight, 
while  our  sea-bass  and  our  salad  and  coffee  were 
being  prepared,  we  watched  two  gorgeous  pea- 
cocks disporting  themselves,  and  several  pheas- 
ants strutted  up  and  down.  You  felt  as  if 
you  were  somewhere  in  France,  for  French  was 
the  language  we  heard  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grapes,  where  several  waiters  were  resting  and 
smoking  after  the  day's  work.  The  big  dinner 
crowd  from  town  had  long  since  gone,  and  the 
place  was  completely  ours.  We  had  freshened 
up,  and  it  was  well  on  to  eleven  o'clock  when 
we  sat  down  to  that  delicious  little  supper.  But 
afterwards  we  found,  to  our  regret,  that  monsieur, 
who  came  himself  to  greet  us  in  a  grand  chef's 
costume,  with  picturesque  cap  and  white  apron, 
had  no  rooms  for  us;  his  was  only  a  restaurant 
now. 

It  was  a  fearful  anticlimax  to  loiter  down  to 
the  center  of  the  ugly  town  and  have  to  take 
stuffy  rooms  that  opened  almost  on  the  public 
square.  But  any  bed  was  comfortable  after  the 
long  day  outdoors,  and  though  a  raucous  band 

63 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

played  loud  tunes  beneath  us,  and  motors  tooted 
as  they  swiftly  turned  corners,  I  sank  into  an 
easy  slumber,  from  which  I  did  not  awaken  until 
a  crash  of  thunder  and  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning 
came  toward  dawn. 

It  had  been  cool  the  day  before,  but  this  storm, 
like  many  another,  simply  made  the  atmosphere 
heavy  and  more  oppressive — so  heavy  that  we 
had  n't  the  heart  to  go  back  to  our  French  inn  for 
breakfast,  as  we  had  planned  to  do.  Instead,  we 
ate  what  we  could  get  in  a  sad  room  where  the 
chairs  were  piled  on  the  tables,  until  they  formed 
a  fence  around  us,  and  a  trying  light  from  a  sky- 
light revealed  a  dirty  ball-room  floor.  Covered 
drums  were  on  the  musicians'  stand, — would  that 
they  had  been  muffled  during  the  night ! — and  the 
one  sluggish  waiter  on  duty  wandered  about 
among  this  tattered  place  of  artificial  flowers  like 
a  lost  soul,  fetching  a  spoon  now,  a  fork  later, 
and  some  coffee,  when  it  suited  his,  and  the  cook's, 
convenience.  The  heavy  red  plush  hangings, 
with  the  dust  only  too  evident  in  the  garish 
morning  light,  were  draped  back  with  cheap  brass 


1  The  one  sluggish  waiter  on  duty  " 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

cords,  and  we  could  hardly  wait  to  get  out  of 
such  a  place.  Any  road,  no  matter  how  hot, 
would  be  better  than  this.  It  was  like  viewing 
a  soiled  ball-gown  at  nine  in  the  morning,  with 
a  grotesquely  painted  face  above  it. 

All  the  towns  and  villages  along  the  South 
Shore  between,  say,  Lynbrook  and  Bayport  are 
but  a  means  to  an  end — the  reaching  of  the  real 
outskirts,  those  more  fascinatingly  informal  places 
that  lead  to  Shinnecock  Hills.  Such  spots  as 
Freeport,  Massapequa,  Merrick  (although  one 
must  say  a  kindly  word  for  this  charming  little 
residential  neighborhood),  Babylon,  Bay  Shore, 
and  even  Islip,  are  too  hard-heartedly  decent  in 
aspect  to  give  one  any  sense  of  comradeship;  and 
Jim  and  I,  like  everybody  else,  had  motored 
through  or  to  them  so  often  that  they  were  an 
old  story  to  us.  One  wishes  to  pass  them  over 
on  a  jaunt  such  as  ours,  though  remembering  by- 
gone happiness  in  them,  as  one  would  skip  unin- 
teresting passages  in  an  otherwise  good  book — a 
book  one  had  dipped  into  many  times,  so  that  one 
knows  the  very  paragraphs  to  avoid.  There  are 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

some  splendid  estates  along  the  Merrick  Road, 
and  I  suppose  the  total  wealth  here  would  amount 
to  an  unbelievable  sum ;  but  mixed  in  with  places 
that  the  architects  have  striven  to  make  lovely, 
and  succeeded  in  their  efforts,  are  too  many 
nouveau-riche  dwellings  that  must  belong  to  the 
period  of  Brooklyn  renaissance.  Oh,  how  I  de- 
test Mansard  roofs !  and  one  sees  plenty  of  them 
here.  Bits  of  water,  like  little  mirrors,  break  the 
monotony  of  a  long  motor  ride  through  this  re- 
gion, and  a  bridge  and  a  stretch  of  hedge  every 
now  and  then  do  much  to  vary  the  scene.  Yet, 
taken  all  in  all,  it  is  an  area  that  has  never 
thrilled  me.  William  K.  Vanderbilt  kept  up  a 
vast  park  at  Islip,  and  seemingly  for  miles  there 
is  a  high  iron  fence,  and  a  warning  to  keep  out 
(as  if  one  could  ever  get  in),  and  a  statement  to 
the  effect  that  this  is  a  private  preserve,  where 
birds  and  fish  and  game  are  raised,  and  allowed 
to  increase  and  multiply  like  so  many  dollars  in 
a  remote  vault. 

Other  multimillionaires,  I  am  told,  raise  horses 
round  about,   and  behind  tall  brick  walls  and 

68 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

solid  green  hedges  is  many  a  beautiful  home  that 
the  mere  wayfarer  cannot  view;  only  the  elect 
who  professionally  go  to  week-ends  and  drink  in 
the  delights  of  the  greensward  and  the  golden 
private  beaches,  and  whisper  of  them  afterward 
to  the  less  favored  in  town. 

Just  outside  Lynbrook,  on  this  muggy  morning, 
we  had  the  energy  to  start  down  the  Merrick 
Road,  knowing  full  well  it  was  a  place  for  mo- 
torists only,  with  no  scrap  of  a  path,  save  here 
and  there,  for  pedestrians.  We  did  it,  knowing 
how  stupid  we  were.  We  did  not  like  the 
thought  of  a  train,  and  we  said  to  ourselves  that 
surely  some  kind-hearted  driver  or  truckster  would 
give  us  a  lift.  It  is  more  difficult,  however,  as 
we  soon  discovered,  for  two  people  to  be  taken 
care  of  in  this  way  than  one.  We  were  passed 
scornfully  by  several  times,  and  even  suspicious 
glances  were  cast  our  way. 

"Revenue  officers  again  they  think  us,  getting 
the  evidence  in  pairs,"  I  said.  "How  times  have 
changed !  A  year  ago  such  a  situation  would 
have  been  impossible." 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Then  Peter  came  along.  Peter  drove  a  great, 
strong,  massive  truck,  and  he  sat  triumphantly 
alone  on  an  unbelievably  wide  seat,  with  little 
baggage;  none,  apparently,  from  our  point  of 
vantage.  We  hailed  him,  and  he  instantly 
stopped  in  that  burning  stretch  of  road.  The 
sun  had  come  out,  and  it  was  as  hot  as  I  cared 
to  feel  it. 

Peter  smiled  on  us,  bade  us  get  in,  and  before 
we  knew  it  we  were  speeding  on,  though  not  too 
fast,  passing  fashionable  limousines  in  which  we 
hoped  rode  friends  or  acquaintances  who  would 
see  us  on  our  proud  eminence  on  a  wagon  marked 
"Bologna,  Ham,  and  Sausages."  But  no  such 
luck. 

Peter  had  been  in  the  army — ten  months  in 
France,  where  he  was  utilized  in  the  repair  shops 
because  of  his  mechanical  bent;  he  would  rather 
tinker  with  machinery  than  eat  a  square  meal, 
and  he  was  a  husky  young  fellow.  And  he  was 
proud  of  his  job.  His  employer  had  the  biggest 
and  finest  trucks  in  Brooklyn,  he  told  us.  They 
never  broke  down,  and  when  he  recognized  one 

70 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

coming  toward  us — they  did  a  thriving  business 
on  Long  Island,  evidently — he  hailed  the  driver 
in  that  free-masonry  of  fellow  employees,  and 
remarked:  "Ain't  that  a  fine  truck,  now^  You 
get  a  better  view  of  it  when  you  ain't  on  it." 
We  assured  him  it  was  because  of  the  beauty  of 
his  wagon  that  we  had  hailed  him. 

We  saw  a  sailor  trudging  along  ahead  of  us, 
and  Peter,  once  having  been  innoculated  with  the 
germ  of  hospitality,  drew  up  and  asked  him  to 
join  our  happy  party.  Jack  was  going  to  Baby- 
lon to  get  recruits  for  the  navy,  he  was  quick  to 
inform  us,  and  he  was  loud  in  his  love  of  the 
service.  He  had  been  on  submarine-chasers  all 
during  the  war,  and  he  and  Peter  hit  it  up  in 
great  shape,  doing  most  of  the  talking,  while  Jim 
and  I  merely  listened.  It  was  as  though  you 
heard  two  college  boys  from  a  university  to  which 
you  had  not  been  privileged  to  go,  talking  over 
their  secret  societies,  their  professors,  their  dormi- 
tories. 

But  Peter  was  going  only  as  far  as  Massa- 
pequa,  much  to  his  regret;  but  he  might  go  on 

71 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

farther  later  in  the  day.  So  we  all  got  out  when 
his  turning  came.  Right  behind  us  thundered  a 
huge  wagon,  crowded  with  men  and  boys  who 
wore  little  white  caps,  and  waved  flags  indus- 
triously; I  think  it  must  have  been  an  Elks  out- 
ing. I  never  knew ;  but  they  were  blowing  horns 
and  cheering  at  everybody,  and  when  they  saw 
Jack,  they  yelled  frantically  to  him  to  get  aboard. 
They  wanted  none  of  Jim  and  me;  indeed,  there 
was  hardly  room  for  one  more  human  in  that 
packed  truck;  and  the  last  we  saw  of  him,  he  was 
being  made  much  of  by  the  Elks,  if  such  they 
were,  and  I  thought  I  saw  him  already  beginning 
his  recruiting  among  those  happy  fellows.  He 
took  off  his  cap,  waving  us  good-by,  while,  Peter 
having  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  we  saun- 
tered on  alone. 

There  were  many  little  roads  tempting  us  out 
of  the  beaten  paths,  and  several  times  we  took 
one,  rejoicing  in  the  proximity  to  the  ocean,  where 
the  salt  air  came  to  our  nostrils,  and  great  elms 
and  oaks  sheltered  us  from  the  blazing  rays  of 
the  sun.  But  we  did  n't  care ;  we  had  hooked 

72 


"  There  were  many  little  roads  tempting 
us  out  of  the  beaten  paths  " 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

many  a  ride,  and  we  knew  that  almost  whenever 
we  wanted  another  we  could  get  it. 

We  sat  under  a  tree,  in  the  tall  grass  for  about 
an  hour,  when  again  I  heard  the  rumble  of  a 
truck — Peter's,  of  course.  Who  could  mistake 
those  heavy  wheels?  "He's  back,"  I  said  to  Jim. 
And  sure  enough,  it  was  he,  and  he  was  on  the 
lookout  for  us,  and  drew  up  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  just  as  a  taxi-driver  might  for  a  passenger 
who  would  surely  pay  him  and  give  him  a  goodly 
tip  in  the  bargain. 

"I  'm  going  all  the  way  to  Bayport,"  he  ex- 
claimed, happier  than  we  could  hope  over  the 
prospect  of  our  company  again.  We  felt  su- 
premely flattered.  "I  '11  take  you  all  the  way," 
he  added  generously.  And  he  did.  He  could  n't 
understand  it  when  we  told  him  we  did  n't  mind 
footing  it  a  bit;  but  we  knew  there  would  be 
plenty  of  other  chances  to  make  haste  slowly,  so 
joyfully  climbed  in,  feeling  that  Peter  was  a  real 
friend  of  ours. 

Off  the  main  road  at  Bayport,  which  used  to  be 
the  home  of  John  Mason,  the  celebrated  actor, 

75 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

there  is  another  French  inn,  not  generally  known, 
and  boasting  no  fashionable  exterior,  but  a  plain- 
enough  building,  with  a  comfortable  veranda, 
and  kept  by  a  young  man  and  his  wife  who  can 
cook  to  perfection,  who  never  have  a  crowd 
around  them,  and  who  love  to  have  their  guests 
walk  right  into  the  kitchen  and  select  their  steak 
or  their  lobster,  and  make  suggestions  for  a  din- 
ner that  is  beyond  parallel. 

It  was  for  this  inn  that  we  were  headed,  and 
many  a  time  I  had  arrived  at  its  door  by  auto- 
mobile. Now,  however,  we  came  up  in  this  lum- 
bering truck,  and  monsieur  and  madame  could 
not  believe  their  eyes  when  we  alighted  thus  in- 
formally. Nothing  would  do  but  that  Peter 
should  lunch  with  us.  He  parked  the  bologna- 
sausage-ham  car  at  the  roadside  as  carefully  as 
though  it  had  been  a  ten-thousand  dollar  limou- 
sine, and  when  he  had  washed  up,  he  was  as 
personable  as  any  one  would  wish  to  have  him. 
Jim  and  I  were  not  Beau  Brummells,  I  assure 
you.  We  all  had  a  meal  to  delight  the  gods, 
and  then  Peter  told  us  he  would  have  to  attend 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

to  some  business  and  hurry  back  to  Brooklyn. 
We  did  n't  like  to  see  him  go,  it  was  still  so  ter- 
ribly hot;  but  he  was  a  business  man  first,  and  a 
society  man  afterward,  though  he  did  n't  put  it 
that  way  himself,  and  nothing  we  could  offer 
would  tempt  him  to  be  detained. 

Jim  went  in  bathing  at  Blue  Point,  a  few  miles 
away,  while  I  strolled  about  Bayport,  through 
lanes  where  the  trees  look,  oddly  enough,  like 
kneeling  camels,  and  where  the  sidewalks,  as  in 
Douglas  Manor,  are  built  to  go  around  them,  and 
where  there  is  a  hush  that  must  be  like  the  quiet 
of  heaven,  so  far  are  you  from  the  railroad,  with 
its  iron  clamor. 

That  night  the  moon  came  up  like  a  big  pearl 
out  of  the  sea,  half  hidden  by  a  galleon  of  clouds, 
and  Jim  and  I  went  loitering  about  the  half- 
lighted  roads;  for  we  liked  the  spot  so  much,  and 
monsieur  and  madame  were  so  gracious,  that  we 
were  determined  to  stay  the  night.  Dim,  cool 
rooms  awaited  us,  with  the  whitest  of  linen  and 
the  best  of  baths. 

I  have  often  noticed,  in  motoring  at  night, 
79 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

what  a  new  aspect  the  scenery  presents,  with 
one's  search-light  forging  through  the  mist  and 
darkness.  To-night,  afoot,  it  was  quite  the  same, 
and  on  these  off  roads,  with  the  world  seemingly 
far  away,  I  made  up  a  song  that  went  like 
this: 

Walking  in  the  moonlight  down  a  lonely  road, 
How  the  hedges  glisten  like  scenery  of  paint! 

Cardboard  are  the  trees,  and  cardboard  each  abode, 
A  curious  illusion  when  the  moon  is  faint. 

Motors  whirl  around  us  on  far,  crowded  ways; 

Pasteboard  are  the  poplars,  stark  against  the  sky. 
Is  this  the  world  we  wandered  through  the  summer  days  *? 

It 's  like  a  dream,  it's  moonshine.     Reality,  good-by ! 

It  could  n't  be  real,  that  ghostly  moon  up  there, 
dimly  reflected  in  a  tiny  sheet  of  water  by  the 
path  we  trod,  that  whispering  low  wind  in  the 
rushes  and  in  the  trees.  How  wonderful  it  was 
to  be  here  in  this  quiet,  quaint  little  town,  with 
its  lawns  of  velvet,  its  solemn,  empty  church,  its 
real  dirt  roads,  and  its  outspreading,  hospitable 
trees,  that  clung  together  like  a  nation  in  time  of 
war,  as  firmly  rooted  in  the  ground  as  a  people 

80 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

should  be  rooted  in  the  soil  they  love  and  from 
which  they  sprang! 

I  recall  a  circular  summer  dining-room  on  the 
outskirts  of  Bayport,  surrounded  with  hollyhocks 
and  lit  with  candles,  which  we  could  see  from  the 
road  at  a  turning.  It  looked  like  a  crown  that 
would  never  crumble,  and  we  could  hear  the  peo- 
ple laughing  within  its  happy  circle,  and  though 
we  had  no  wish  to  pry  upon  them,  we  could  n't 
help  pausing  and  listening  to  their  gay  chatter. 
Crickets  chirped,  and  down  in  a  damp  meadow 
frogs  were  croaking — delightful  sounds  of  mid- 
July.  Somewhere,  in  another  house,  a  young  girl 
began  to  sing  a  wistful  old  song,  and  the  moon 
went  spinning  behind  a  sudden  cloud;  and  all  at 
once  we  felt  strangely  alone  out  there  in  the 
scented  dark.  To  think  that  people  lived  so  ex- 
cellently and  wisely  all  the  time;  that  their  days 
went  so  gladly  for  them,  year  in  and  year  out, 
and  that  this  simple  experience  should  be  for  us 
in  the  nature  of  an  adventure ! 

We  turned  back  to  our  inn,  healthily  tired,  and 
a  little  better,  I  hope,  for  our  day  in  the  open. 

81 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

I  was  looking  at  the  map  when  we  returned, 
underneath  my  lamp,  to  see  just  where  we  would 
go  next;  and  I  was  struck,  as  my  finger  ran  over 
the  fascinating  paper,  with  the  litany  of  lovely 
and  curious  names  of  the  villages  beyond.  They 
kept  singing  in  my  head  as  I  went  to  sleep,  and 
finally  I  had  to  get  up  and  put  them  down  in 
rhyme.  I  called  it 

A    SONG   OF   THE    SOUTH    SHORE 

Now  we  must  on  to  Bellport  before  the  sun  is  high, 
And  laugh  along  the  roadside  with  bird  and  butterfly ; 
And  then  to  green  Brookhaven,  hidden  behind  the  trees, 
Our  comrades  only  casual  cars,  and  rows  of  hedge,  and 

bees. 
It 's  up  at  daybreak  we  must  be,  and  roam  the  island 

over, 
Light-hearted  in  the  summer  days,  bright-hearted  through 

the  clover. 

We  '11  jog  along  to  Speonk  and  larger  towns  thereby; 
When  one  is  just  a  gipsy,  how  swift  the  hours  fly! 
We  '11  take  the  road  at  sunset  and  hear  the  croaking  frog, 
And  soon  we  '11  be  where  water  calls,  and  find  ourselves  in 

Quogue. 
Bright,  dancing  bays  will  wink  at  us  before  the  journey's 

over — 
Oh,  it  is  good  in  summer-time  to  be  a  careless  rover ! 

82 


SUNLIT  AND  MOONLIT  ROADS 

Then  on  again  to  Shinnecock  and  Great  Peconic  Bay. 
It  is  n't  far  to  Southampton ;  we  '11  make  it  in  a  day. 
Old,  lovely  towns  on  rolling  downs  that  sleep  and  dream 

and  smile ; 

Ah !  some  wear  gowns  of  calico,  and  some  go  in  for  style. 
But  we,   like   tramps,  knock  at  their   doors,   unheeding 

Fashion's  bonnet. 
One  town  is  like  the  freest  verse ;  one  's  like  a  formal 

sonnet. 

At  moonlight  we  will  strike  Good  Ground,  and,  when  the 

world  is  still, 
If  we  're  in  luck,  we  '11  come,  like  Puck,  to  quiet  Water 

Mill. 
And  then  to  Wainscott  we  '11  press  on  with  tired  foot  and 

hand, 
Till  Amagansett  smiles  on  us,  and  then  —  the  Promised 

Land. 
It 's  good  to  need  a  healing  sleep  in  the  rich  summer 

weather — 
Two  friends  who  fare  along  the  road,  happy  and  young 

together. 

There 's   Rocky   Point   to-morrow,   too,  that  dreams  by 

Fort  Pond  Bay, 
With  stretches  of  a  lonely  shore  that  gleams  for  miles 

away; 
Too  far  for  pilgrims  in  gay  cars  who  crave  the  louder 

things ; 
But  you  and  I  fare  on  to  them,  far  happier  than  kings. 

83 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

For  Montauk  Point  is  at  the  end,  and  there  the  ocean 

thunders, 
And  the  lonely  coast  gives  up  at  last  its  old  immortal 

wonders. 


84 


CHAPTER  IV 

GETTING    ALONG    TO    SHINNECOCK 

T3  ETWEEN  Patchogue  and  Bellport  there  is 
*^  a  road  that  dips  and  turns,  with  here  and 
there  a  bridge  to  break  the  monotony  of  one's  walk 
and  glimpses  of  pools  and  streams  to  add  delight 
to  what  is  a  charming  province. 

I  remember  once,  when  America  first  got  into 
the  war,  how  I  motored  over  this  same  road  with 
a  friend  from  Bellport  who  was  taking  her  young 
colored  butler  to  the  registration  office  at  Patch- 
ogue, where  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  report. 
The  poor  fellow  was  very  nervous,  and  we  kept 
heartening  him  with  gentle  words.  In  his  ig- 
norance he  was  certain  he  would  be  sent  overseas 
that  very  afternoon,  and  the  sudden  separation 
from  a  good  home  and  his  best  girl  did  not  tend 
to  make  him  happy.  He  kept  repeating  that  he 
"wanted  to  serve  Uncle  Sam,  anything  to  help 

85 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Uncle  Sam,"  but  he  would  rather  be  a  potato- 
peeler  (as  most  of  us  would  if  we  were  as  honest 
as  he)  than  a  fighting  soldier  and  run  the  risk 
of  being  gassed  by  those  awful  Huns.  We  as- 
sured him  as  best  we  could  that  if  his  talent  ran 
to  peeling  potatoes,  the  powers  that  be  would 
soon  find  it  out,  and  no  doubt  he  would  prove  a 
valuable  addition  to  the  company  kitchen  and  be 
kept  far  behind  the  firing-line. 

It  would  lend  a  romantic  touch  to  my  story  if 
I  could  truthfully  say  that  Washington  went  to 
France  as  a  common  soldier  and  died  heroically 
in  the  trenches  and  never  was  called  upon  to  peel 
even  one  potato.  But  such  is  not  the  case.  He 
remained  all  during  the  conflict  on  Long  Island, 
cooking  for,  peeling  for,  and  waiting  on,  the  offi- 
cers' mess.  And  it  made  my  jaunt  over  the  road 
where  once  I  had  accompanied  him  to  serve  his 
country  and  his  beloved  Uncle  Sam  all  the  pleas- 
anter  to  realize  that  he,  too,  traveled  over  it  fre- 
quently now,  for  he  is  back  with  his  old  mistress 
in  Bellport.  But  he  does  not  walk.  Not  Wash- 
ington! No  such  labored,  plebeian  a  means  of 

86 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

locomotion  for  him.  He  owns  a  little  car,  and 
I  believe  his  best  girl  is  now  Mrs.  Washington; 
and  they  are  as  happy  as  I  whenever  they  go 
through  this  green  way,  now  that  a  certain  form 
of  peace  has  come  back  to  our  land. 

The  morning  we  left  Bayport,  or,  rather,  the 
morning  I  got  back  to  it  after  a  few  days'  neces- 
sary absence  in  town,  dawned  beautifully  bright. 
There  were  jewels  on  the  green,  opulent  hedges. 
It  was  still  late  July,  and  the  country  wore  that 
look  of  richness  that  comes  at  this  gorgeous  sea- 
son. There  is  a  splendid  hour  of  summer  when 
nature  is  at  flood-tide,  when  the  bins  of  the 
world  seem  to  be  overflowing  with  sweetness  and 
greenness;  a  lavish  moment  that  makes  the  heart 
ache,  the  earth  is  so  crowded  with  peace  and  de- 
light. You  gasp  in  the  presence  of  such  per- 
fection; for  every  leaf  seems  to  hold  out  a  hand 
to  you  as  you  pass  under  arching  trees,  and  every 
pool  of  water  seems  literally  to  pause  and  whis- 
per that  this  glory  will  not  last.  "Drink  it  in 
now,  while  you  can,"  it  softly  says.  "August 
will  be  upon  us  before  you  know  it;  and  then  the 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

tide  will  turn,  a  different  kind  of  beauty  will  be 
in  the  bright  mornings,  another  wonder  will  float 
over  this  water  in  the  afternoons.  The  evenings 
will  grow  cooler.  A  change  will  take  place.  So 
brood  over  this  mystery  of  full  summer  now; 
for  it  passes  even  while  you  are  contemplating 
it." 

And  it  is  true.  The  summer  must  hurrj  on; 
the  splendor  must  fade,  to  make  way  for  the 
golden  tapestries  that  autumn  soon,  too  soon,  will 
hang  upon  the  hills. 

There  were  little  dips  and  side  trails  all  around 
us,  and  having,  as  always,  no  thought  of  time,  we 
often  investigated  the  roads  that  "led  to  God 
knows  where,"  finding  delight  in  a  sort  of  school- 
boy exploration,  surprising  a  cow  calmly  grazing 
in  some  off  field,  or  causing  a  family  of  hogs 
to  grunt  and  attempt  a  clumsy  scampering.  Off 
the  main  road,  I  could  n't  help  jotting  down  this 
song  on  this  particularly  bright  morning  in  praise 
of  tramping : 

Through  many  a  dale  and  hollow, 
Round  many  a  curving  trail, 

88 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

We  dipped,  as  dips  a  swallow, 
And  cared  if  none  might  follow, 
Nor  feared  our  feet  might  fail. 

Through  sunlit,  warm  morasses, 
Through  many  a  summer  day, 

With  glimpses  of  green  grasses 

And  quaint,  mysterious  passes, 
We  took  our  care-free  way. 

By  many  a  farm  and  meadow 

And  many  a  lovely  down, 
We  tramped,  in  sun  and  shadow, 
Wherever  Fancy  led.     Oh, 

Forgotten  was  the  town ! 

At  every  road's  new  turning, 

Some  new  delight  we  spied. 
The  fields  with  joy  were  burning, 
And  we,  fresh  scenes  discerning, 

Kept  up  our  glorious  stride. 

What  mattered  love's  mismatings! 

What  mattered  life's  hard  load 
Or  Bradstreet's  silly  ratings, 
For  we  had  happy  datings 

With  God  along  the  road! 

I  had  a  new  companion  with  me  this  time,  a 
young  fellow  named  Gordon.     He  had  been  in 

89 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

the  war,  and  he  said  that  walking  quietly  around 
Long  Island  appealed  to  him  after  the  noise  and 
confusion  of  the  trenches. 

We  got  on  to  Bellport,  that  village  which  con- 
tains charming  little  houses,  some  of  which  rest 
neatly  on  the  ground,  as  though  they  had  no 
cellars,  and  give  the  impression  of  well-con- 
structed scenery  in  a  light  opera.  There  are  gates 
that  click  delightfully,  old-fashioned  flower  gar- 
dens, paths  bordered  with  phlox  and  hollyhocks. 
A  blue  bay  shines  in  the  sun,  so  radiant  that  it 
has  been  painted  by  many  artists,  notably  Wil- 
liam J.  Glackens,  who  used  to  live  here.  Indeed, 
many  artists  have  loved  this  quaint  little  village. 
James  and  May  Wilson  Preston  still  make  their 
summer  home  within  its  quiet  confines,  and  they, 
like  every  one  else,  go  out  on  the  golf-links  in  the 
afternoon,  where  there  are  glimpses  of  the  water 
all  along  the  course. 

Many  of  these  towns,  however,  have  lost  dur- 
ing the  last  few  years  that  simplicity  which  was 
once  one  of  their  most  cherished  possessions. 
Evening  clothes  were  never  tolerated;  it  was  al- 

90 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

ways  white  flannels  and  the  most  inexpensive 
frocks  at  every  dinner  party  or  dance.  But  the 
rich  creep  in  everywhere,  lured  by  the  easy-going 
spirit  they  would  give  anything  to  emulate;  and 
then  the  inevitable  tragedy  occurs.  They  kill 
the  very  thing  they  love  the  most,  and  frocks  and 
frills,  laces  and  jewels,  conventional  costumes, 
are  put  on  in  the  golden  heart  of  summer,  and  the 
old  simplicity  goes  as  new  complications  arrive. 
A  barn  dance  becomes  a  stately  festival  in  an 
over-decorated  club-house,  and  the  flivver  is  su- 
perseded by  yellow  cars  with  magnificent  names, 
and  Mrs.  So-and-So  will  not  bow  to  Mrs.  Some- 
body Else,  and  it 's  good-by  to  real  fun  and  de- 
mocracy, and  "Let 's  go  down  to  the  Southampton 
beach"  instead  of  across  the  quiet,  dreaming  little 
bay  in  a  rocking  tub  of  a  boat  for  a  dip  in  the 
surf. 

It 's  too  bad,  but  in  America  we  never  seem 
able  to  keep,  for  three  or  four  consecutive  years 
even,  the  same  atmosphere  we  were  so  bent  on 
creating.  We  rent  a  lovely  cottage,  invite  our 
friends  into  it,  and  then  immediately  run  away 

91 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

from  it.  For  we  have  heard  that  the  next  town 
down  the  road  is  smarter  or  more  thrilling,  and 
if  the  stock  market  has  done  well  by  us,  we  must 
get  a  bigger  house  during  June,  July,  and  Au- 
gust, and  flutter  a  bit  more,  soar  just  a  little 
higher. 

There  were  some  village  boys  playing  ball  in 
a  field  beyond  Bellport,  and  it  happened  to  be  a 
quiet  morning,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  one 
with  the  leisure  to  watch  their  game.  So  we, 
remembering  Whitman's  line,  "If  there  are  to  be 
great  poets,  we  must  have  great  audiences,  too," 
constituted  ourselves  the  audience;  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  ever  enjoyed  a  game  more. 
There  were  some  fine  players  on  that  little  team, 
and  as  home  run  after  home  run  was  made,  we 
noticed  a  lad  looking  wistfully  on,  with  one  arm 
gone — his  right  arm,  too.  I  whispered  to  Gor- 
don, "Too  bad,  is  n't  it?  No  doubt  he  used  to 
play,  and  perhaps  the  war  has  robbed  him  of  that 
pleasure  now."  Scarcely  were  the  words  out  of 
my  mouth  when  he  took  his  place  at  the  bat,  no 
one  except  ourselves  seeming  the  least  surprised 

92 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

that  he  should  do  so.  He  made  two  hits,  to  my 
utter  amazement.  But  why  should  n't  he,  after 
all,  have  done  himself  and  the  home  team  proud4? 
A  boy  who  could  be  undefeated  in  the  face  of 
such  an  accident  as  must  have  been  his  surely 
would  not  have  been  defeated  at  base-ball.  We 
cheered  him  to  the  echo,  making  up  in  enthusiasm 
what  we  lacked  in  numbers. 

It  is  only  a  short  walk  from  Bellport  to  Brook- 
haven;  three  or  four  miles  at  the  most,  I  should 
say.  You  turn  to  the  right  when  a  wooden 
church  comes  into  view,  and  here  you  strike  real 
country  roads,  and  are  mu'ch  more  apt  to  encoun- 
ter carts  and  wagons  than  hurrying  motors.  For 
Brookhaven  is  just  what  its  name  implies,  a  quiet 
little  village  where  one  would  have  time  for  con- 
templation, where  there  is  n't  the  slightest  pre- 
tense or  desire  for  it ;  a  tiny  side  room,  as  it  were ; 
a  pleasant  place  to  take  a  nap,  to  write  a  letter, 
or  to  read  a  book.  James  L.  Ford  and  his  sister, 
who  always  have  seemed  to  me  like  Charles  and 
Mary  Lamb,  pass  their  summers  here  in  a  cottage 
typical  of  what  a  literary  man's  cottage  should 

93 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

be;  and  it  is  here  in  this  silent  spot  that  some  of 
Mr.  Ford's  wittiest  reviews  have  been  written 
and  some  of  his  cleverest  bon  mots  uttered,  cham- 
pagne exploding  and  delighting  the  guests  at  quiet 
country  dinner  parties.  Several  artists  also  find 
the  summer  months  to  their  liking  here,  and  you 
can't  wonder  at  their  choice.  If  one  should  not 
wish  to  keep  house,  there  is  a  homelike  inn  where 
the  best  of  food  is  to  be  obtained,  and  the  place 
is  near  enough  to  New  York  to  make  commuting 
possible,  even  though  not  desirable.  There  is  a 
bit  of  bay  to  sail  or  row  upon,  fishing,  and  the 
kind  of  human  society  a  thinking  man  longs  for. 
Round  about  Brookhaven  the  grass  grows  high, 
like  a  boy  in  the  back  country  whose  hair  is  al- 
lowed to  get  shaggy  because  there  is  no  barber 
handy.  And  there  are  delicate  lattice  fences  and 
trellises  painted  a  rich  blue,  and  all  the  old- 
fashioned  flowers  in  the  world,  seemingly,  peep 
over  them  and  smile  at  you  and  flirt  with  you^as 
you  go  down  the  road.  This  is  the  sort  of  village 
I  dote  upon,  informal,  gentle  as  a  nun,  but  ready 


94 


"  There  are  eyes  watching  you  " 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

for  a  party  any  time  the  right  folk  come  to  pay 
it  a  visit. 

Between  Brookhaven  and  Mastic  and  the 
Moriches  there  are  any  number  of  cool  back  roads, 
and  people  on  farms  here  are  primitive  and  plain, 
and  would  exult,  if  they  were  articulate,  I  have 
no  doubt,  in  their  cold  sobriety  and  reserve. 
Through  places  like  these  you  can  walk  for  hours, 
and  apparently  it  is  a  deserted  district.  There 
are  plenty  of  houses,  but  no  one  seems  to  be  in 
them.  The  shutters  will  be  drawn  in  the  "par- 
lor," which  is  kept  for  the  company  that  never 
comes,  and  one  can  almost  see  those  dim  and 
shadowy,  unaired  rooms,  with  shells  and  plush 
family  albums,  heavy  lambrequins,  and  faded 
lace  curtains,  carpets  with  big  pink  roses  for  a 
central  design,  and  a  filigreed  wallpaper  that 
would  make  the  heart  ache,  against  which  crude 
family  portraits  rest  in  austere  rows.  You  are 
aware,  as  you  pass,  that  even  though  no  one  is 
visible,  there  are  eyes  watching  you,  and  people 
with  little  else  to  do  are  wondering  who  you  are 


97 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

and  where  you  are  going.  It  rained  softly  the 
afternoon  we  got  off  the  beaten  road,  and  Gor- 
don and  I  had  this  sense  of  being  stared  at  to 
such  a  degree  that  we  got  into  a  foolish  fit  of 
laughter.  We  were  so  sure  of  not  being  alone 
on  a  road  that,  when  one  looked  about  you,  was 
so  decidedly  empty. 

"I  wonder  what  they  see  in  us,"  Gordon  said. 

"I  wonder,  too,"  I  answered.  "It 's  so  differ- 
ent in  New  York.  There  no  one  pays  the  slight- 
est attention  to  anybody  else.  But  here — well, 
I  feel  as  if  we  were  in  a  mystery  play,  and  I 
really  don't  like  it,  do  you'?" 

"No.  And,  gosh!  look  at  that  big  dog  com- 
ing toward  us !  He  looks  fiendish ;  and  it 's  rain- 
ing hard,  and  we  '11  be  soaked  through." 

We  got  under  an  oak-tree — it  was  just  a 
shower,  not  a  storm — and  escaped  the  sniffling, 
barking  canine,  much,  I  think,  to  his  disgust. 
And  then,  wet  though  I  was,  I  wrote  this  on  a 
scrap  of  paper  and  handed  it  over  to  Gordon: 

I  walk  along  the  city  streets, 
And  no  one  seems  to  care. 

98 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

The  people  merely  think  I  'm  out 

To  get  a  breath  of  air ; 
In  drenching  rain  I  cross  the  road 

With  manner  debonair. 

But  if  I  walk  on  country  roads 
When  days  are  warm  and  damp, 

The  folk  peep  from  their  windows  like 
Old  tipsy  Sairey  Gamp, 

And  whisper  in  their  farm-houses : 
"Just  look !     There  goes  a  tramp !" 

The  dogs  come  out  and  snar^  at  me ; 

They  have  n't  any  pity : 
And  children  call  me  cruel  names; 

I  've  never  thought  them  witty. 
Oh,  there  are  moments  when  I  crave 

The  hard,  unnoting  city ! 

"But  you  don't,  and  you  know  it,"  was  Gor- 
don's only  comment  on  what  I  thought  were 
purely  satirical  lines.  "What  liars  you  verse- 
writers  are!  Come  on;  the  shower's  over." 

And  we  trudged  on. 

Through  the  leafy  greenness,  all  the  lovelier 
because  of  the  pleasant  burst  of  rain,  we  came 
to  a  broken-down  gate  that  apparently  led  to 
Moriches  Bay, — we  were  not  far  from  the  wa- 

99 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

ter's-edge,  we  knew, — and  in  crudely  formed  black 
letters  above  it  was  this  legend  on  a  piece  of 
board : 

LADY  UPHOLSTERERS 

OF 

LONG  ISLAND 
PICNIC 

What  a  forlorn  day  for  an  outing!  we  said  to 
ourselves.  And  yet  here  were  we  taking  one, 
and  enjoying  it,  though  the  afternoon  was  murky 
and  sticky.  But  what  could  the  "lady  uphol- 
sterers" look  like,  not  so  much  singly,  but  in  a 
group?  And  how  many  of  them  were  there,  and 
how  had  they  happened  to  band  together  for  this 
summer  holiday?  Was  it  an  annual  affair,  and 
were  they  young  or  old  or  middle-aged?  Did 
they  have  husbands  to  support  them,  or  were 
they  the  wage-earners  of  their  families?  They 
fascinated  us  until  we  saw  eight  of  the  most 
weary  and  bedraggled-looking  females  imaginable 
emerging  from  the  woods  near  by,  burdened  with 
baskets  and  shawls,  pails  and  jars,  and  two 

100 


Our  hearts  ached  for  them 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

screaming  children.  As  Goldberg  says,  "And  all 
this  comes  under  the  head  of  pleasure!"  What 
a  day  they  must  have  had,  poor  dears,  after  weeks, 
nay,  months,  of  heavy  upholstery  work,  pound- 
ing in  tacks  and  stretching  unyielding  cloth  over 
numerous  Long  Island  sofas!  Our  hearts  ached 
for  them,  for  no  doubt,  like  all  picnickers,  they 
had  planned  this  outing  far  ahead,  and  of  course 
the  sky  had  to  empty  out  buckets  of  water  upon 
them  and  the  morning  arrive  full  of  oppressive 
heat.  They  took  their  sodden  way  down  the 
lane  ahead  of  us,  and  after  a  few  hours  of  sit- 
ting on  the  green  grass,  life  was  to  mean  for  them 
again  only  a  long  row  of  chairs  to  be  forever 
mended,  forever  repaired. 

We  decided  that,  although  there  was  a  certain 
kind  of  doubtful  privacy  on  these  back  roads, 
they  were  depressing  to-day,  and  we  would  work 
our  way  back  to  the  main  thoroughfare,  and  get 
to  Moriches  by  nightfall.  So  we  turned  to  the 
left,  encountering  a  pleasant-spoken  farmer  who 
insisted  on  our  riding  with  him,  and  who  thought 
us  quite  mad  to  be  on  a  walking  tour  when  the 

103 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

thermometer  registered  eighty-five  degrees  in  the 
shade.  "You  don't  have  to  walk?"  he  said. 
Even  though  we  told  him  we  liked  going  afoot, 
he  was  skeptical  still,  and  I  have  the  notion  that 
he  was  suspicious,  before  he  left  us,  of  such  a 
pair,  and  rather  regretted  the  kindness  of  a  lift. 
He  was  going  to  a  railway  station,  so  he  dropped 
us  at  the  main  road,  and  we  fared  on  to  the  next 
town  for  our  evening  meal. 

But  on  the  way  numerous  cars  passed  us. 
Finally — I  do  not  recall  just  why — I  was  at- 
tracted by  a  flivver  coming  in  our  direction  which 
seemed  to  be  making  an  almost  human  noise.  A 
sort  of  wheezing  sound  came  out  of  it  as  it  tried 
its  best  to  get  up  a  slight  hill.  There  was  a  little 
bridge  between  us,  and  when  we  were  midway 
upon  it,  the  car  came  to  a  complete  standstill.  I 
saw  that  a  young  colored  man  and  woman  were 
the  occupants,  and  the  face  of  the  boy  looked 
familiar.  He  was  so  busy  trying  to  discover 
what  ailed  his  machine  that  he  had  n't  yet  cast 
a  glance  in  our  direction. 

104 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  as  we  deliberately 
stepped  over  to  his  side. 

"Lord  o'  mercy,  if  it  ain't  Mister  Towne !"  he 
said,  and  rose  and  shook  hands  with  me,  excitedly. 

It  was  Washington,  and  introductions  made  it 
plain  that  there  was  indeed  a  bride,  and  complete 
happiness  now  that  the  ugly  war  was  over  and 
done. 

"I  can  fix  dis  here  car  in  no  time,"  Washing- 
ton announced,  after  we  had  recalled  our  last 
ride  together  on  this  same  road,  much  nearer  New 
York.  He  wanted  to  take  us  on  to  the  next  vil- 
lage,— he  could  n't  understand  any  more  than 
the  farmer  why  we  should  be  footing  it  on  such 
a  day, — and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  make  him 
understand  that  our  preference  was  genuine. 
But  he,  too,  had  a  will  of  his  own;  and  somehow 
— maybe  it  was  the  sticky  heat — Gordon  and  I 
found  ourselves  in  the  rear  seat  ten  minutes  later, 
and  Washington  had  turned  about  and  was  con- 
ducting us,  with  apparent  pride,  to  Eastport.  It 
was  no  trouble  at  all,  no  more  than  peeling  pota- 

105 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

toes.  His  only  fear  was  that  the  car  would  mis- 
behave again,  and  I  was  sure  he  and  Mrs.  Wash- 
ington could  never  have  survived  such  a  catas- 
trophe. 

Wind-mills  begin  to  loom  up  around  the 
Moriches  and  Eastport,  dozens  of  them,  that 
make  you  think  yourself  in  a  foreign  land;  and 
the  salt  air  from  the  sea  comes  to  your  nostrils 
as  you  jog  along.  There  is  a  freedom,  a  wild- 
ness,  a  beauty,  about  this  part  of  the  island  un- 
known to  other  spots  of  the  South  Shore.  And 
then,  to  have  a  companion  who  has  never  been 
this  far,  and  who  has  no  idea  of  what  a  gorgeous 
surprise  is  in  store  for  him  when  the  foot  of 
Shinnecock  Hills  is  reached,  adds  a  zest  to  the 
journey. 

The  towns  are  much  alike,  however.  Speonk 
lives  up  to  its  ugly  name,  and  though  we  saw 
goats  and  calves  in  a  few  front  yards  here,  thus 
going  the  chickens  one  better,  occasionally  we 
would  glimpse  a  lovely  little  cottage  with  an  old- 
fashioned  garden  and  a  lovely  old  lady  among 
her  flowers.  Quogue,  which  is  semi-fashionable 

106 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

and  sprinkles  out  like  a  broken  jewel,  could  lure 
one  from  the  main  road  any  day,  at  any  season; 
for  it  has  a  wonderful  beach,  and  the  ocean  froths 
splendidly  and  angrily  all  along  the  coast.  Hid- 
den away,  tucked  in  corners,  are  villages  like  Rem- 
senburg  in  this  region,  just  a  handful  of  houses 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  where  people  who  are  wise 
enough  to  like  peace  rather  than  stupid  fashion 
foregather  and  really  enjoy  a  summer  as  it  was 
certainly  meant  to  be  enjoyed.  And  every  vil- 
lage, no  matter  how  small,  has  its  roll  of  honor 
in  the  public  square,  a  record  of  the  boys  who 
died  in  France,  their  names  inscribed  forever  on 
a  tablet;  and  you  can  hardly  believe  that  even 
from  these  tiny  places  soldiers  went  forth  on  a 
certain  day. 

Outside  Westhampton  we  came  upon  a  quaint 
castle,  built  of  cement,  around  which  a  staircase 
wandered,  like  a  vine.  A  little  tower  stood  near 
it.  The  extensive  lawns  in  front  of  these  curious 
buildings,  which  looked  as  if  they  had  been  trans- 
ported from  the  Rhine  Valley,  were  thick  with 
startling  statuary,  and  Gordon  and  I,  fresh  from 

107 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

a  good  sleep  at  Eastport,  a  real  country  town 
with  a  real  flavor,  and  knowing  we  could  easily 
reach  Canoe  Place  Inn  by  noon  on  such  a  cool 
morning,  stopped  to  view  the  castle.  We  found 
the  owner,  a  delightful  man  in  middle  life,  with 
the  blue  eyes  of  a  child,  was  a  potter.  Not  only 
that,  but  a  painter,  an  inventor,  a  dreamer,  an 
architect,  and  a  sculptor  as  well.  His  vases, 
which  he  colored  through  a  secret  process,  were 
exquisite,  and  he  showed  us  the  furnaces  where 
he  heated  his  clay  in  the  tower,  and  a  rowboat 
on  the  lake  behind  the  castle,  composed  of  ce- 
ment and  wire,  which  he  was  mighty  proud  of, 
as  he  had  made  it  with  his  own  hands.  A  pic- 
turesque, charming  gentleman,  mowing  the  grass 
when  we  wandered  in,  apparently  at  peace  with 
all  the  world,  and  glad  of  any  casual  visitor  who 
evinced  an  interest  in  his  quaint  place  with  its 
busy  enterprises. 

We  made  Good  Ground  in  three  hours  of  lei- 
surely going,  and  then  the  Shinnecock  Canal, 
where  I  wanted  to  watch  Gordon's  face. 

For  it  is  here  that  Nature  makes  a  sudden 
108 


GETTING  ALONG  TO  SHINNECOCK 

and  supreme  gesture,  as  if  to  say:  "You  thought 
me  rather  stupid  and  commonplace  up  till  now, 
did  n't  you?  But  just  see  what  I  can  do !"  And 
she  lifts  her  hand,  and  presses  it  on  the  earth, 
and  here,  on  prosaic  Long  Island,  puts  a  bit  of 
Scotland !  It  is  a  magical  change,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment you  think  you  are  living  in  a  dream  or  a 
fairy-tale.  Greener  grass  I  have  seldom  seen; 
and  then  the  scrub  bay-trees,  like  gorse,  blueberry- 
bushes,  and  goldenrod!  A  wonderland  opens 
before  you  for  several  miles,  with  clean,  curving 
roads  running  through  it  like  devious  highways 
of  the  king.  Wind-mills  extend  their  arms,  and 
architects  have  wisely  placed  here  only  the  type 
of  dwelling  that  sinks  naturally  into  the  land- 
scape. Shinnecock  Bay  is  as  blue  as  the  Medi- 
terranean, and  on  a  point  to  your  right  a  graceful, 
white  lighthouse  stands.  I  could  look  forever 
upon  this  scene.  From  an  airplane  the  moors 
must  look  like  a  Persian  rug,  spread  across  the 
island  through  some  miracle,  fit  for  a  beautiful 
queen  to  walk  upon.  There  is  only  one  flaw— 
the  practical  telegraph  poles  should  be  removed, 

109 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

or  at  least  hidden  in  some  way.     We  had  camou- 
flage in  the  war;  why  not  in  time  of  peace*? 

"By  Jove !  it 's  great !"  Gordon  said,  as  I  knew 
he  would.  "Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  we  were 
coming  to  this4?" 

"Because  I  wanted  it  to  take  your  breath  away, 
as  it  has,"  I  answered.  And  then  we  fell  silent; 
for  if  there  is  one  thing  I  can't  endure,  it  is  the 
kind  of  friend  who  raves  forever  over  a  sunset 
or  the  starry  expanse  of  heaven  and  gives  you 
no  time  to  think  of  the  wonder  itself. 

We  were  to  lunch  with  friends  at  Shinnecock, 
another  surprise  I  had  for  Gordon,  who  thought 
we  would  hurry  through  this  paradise,  and  make 
a  tramp-like  entrance  into  thrillingly  smart 
Southampton.  He  was  happy  over  the  prospect 
of  several  hours  in  such  a  spot,  as  well  he  might 
be.  I  kept  from  him  the  fact  that  I  even  hoped 
to  be  asked  to  sleep  on  the  moors.  "You  mean 
the  Ostermoors,"  said  my  witty  young  compan- 
ion; and  I  have  not  forgiven  him  yet,  though  in 
justification  he  keeps  reminding  me  what  an  in- 
veterate punster  Charles  Lamb  was  said  to  be. 

no 


CHAPTER  V 

FROM  SOUTHAMPTON  TO  MONTAUK  POINT 

NOT  very  many  New-Yorkers — or  Long-Is- 
landers, for  that  matter — realize  that  at 
Shinnecock  Hills,  within  a  stone's-throw  of  fash- 
ionable Southampton,  there  is  a  small  Indian  res- 
ervation, primitive  Americans  elbowing,  as  it 
were,  with  an  overcivilized  hodgepodge,  lending 
added  color  to  the  crazy-quilt  of  a  hectic  society. 
A  contact  like  this  is  almost  unbelievable;  yet 
there  it  is,  and  I  wonder  what  the  chiefs  and 
squaws  would  think  of  the  bathing-beach  at 
Southampton  if  they  took  the  pains  to  view  it,  as 
we  did,  on  a  certain  Sunday  morning.  Here  was 
the  dernier  cri  in  feminine  costumes,  and  church 
was  just  out.  The  chapel  is  conveniently  and 
thoughtfully  placed  almost  next  to  the  bathing- 
pavilion,  in  order,  I  suppose,  that  the  holy  inno- 
cents may  emerge  from  one  sort  of  spiritual  bath 

ill 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

and  step  into  quite  another.  A  fearless  clergy- 
man, the  day  we  were  there,  had  given  the  idle 
rich  a  severe  lecture,  under  which  many  of  them 
sat  in  mute  unconcern,  and  then  filed  out  to  the 
glowing  sands  of  pleasure,  as  though  the  wither- 
ing words  they  had  just  listened  to  had  never  been 
uttered.  Oh,  wasted  wrath  and  worse  than 
wasted  advice !  Yellow  umbrellas  and  pink-and- 
green  and  salmon  bathing-suits  seemed  of  far 
more  importance  than  ecclesiastical  visions  of  a 
solemn  day  of  judgment,  and  the  so-called  fash- 
ionable world  laughed  and  gossiped  and  frisked 
about  as  of  old,  before  any  world  war  rocked  this 
troubled  earth  or  any  pious  gentleman  dared  to 
speak  his  mind. 

There  are  many  beautiful  gardens  in  Southamp- 
ton, but  I  saw  only  two  of  them,  each  lovely  in  a 
different  way.  One  was  that  of  Mr.  H.  H.  Rog- 
ers, a  formal  Italian  thing  of  glory,  with  the 
sea  singing  almost  up  to  its  very  borders,  and 
with  nothing  between  it  and  Spain  but  this  same 
plunging,  foaming  ocean.  For  the  narrow  strip 
of  land  that  begins  at  Fire  Island  ends  at  Shinne- 

112 


SOUTHAMPTON  TO  MONTAUK  POINT 

cock  Hills,  and  Southampton  triumphantly 
touches  the  sea  itself  and  listens  to  her  song  all 
day  and  night.  The  other  was  the  less  formal 
garden  of  Mr.  James  Breese,  back  in  the  town 
proper,  a  riot  of  luxurious  beauty,  with  vistas 
east  and  west,  north  and  south,  as  in  Mr.  Rogers's 
garden,  and  statues  and  busts  and  fountains,  and 
a  fragrance  forever  arising  out  of  the  clean,  opu- 
lent earth.  Down  such  garden  walks  one  would 
love  to  loiter  through  the  slow  summer  after- 
noons, or  see  the  moon  spill  its  silver  on  quiet 
nights.  The  peace  of  gardens!  The  assuaging 
comfort  they  bring  with  the  noisy  world  on  the 
other  side  of  their  high  walls,  over  which  only  the 
green  vines  clamber  and  peep ! 

After  the  colorful  and  stiff  parade  of  Southamp- 
ton, it  was  soothing  to  get  to  quiet  Water  Mill, 
only  a  few  miles  away,  where  the  dunes  rise  high, 
and  where  Gordon  and  I,  thanks  to  a  lavish 
hostess,  were  given  a  picnic  on  the  beach  on  a 
certain  evening  when  the  stars  were  blazing  the 
sky  and  the  moon  was  a  fragment  of  pearl  against 
deep-blue  velvet.  If  you  ever  pass  through  Wa- 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

ter  Mill,  be  sure  that  you  turn  sharply  to  the 
right  when  you  come  to  a  house  set  at  the  side  of 
a  little  inlet,  and  make  for  the  shore  about  a 
mile  beyond.  The  sand  has  formed  mighty 
hillocks  here,  and  far  as  the  eye  can  see  there  is 
a  noble  coast-line,  with  spray  continually  veiling 
the  shore  as  the  first  soft  snow  envelops  the  world 
on  a  December  day.  A  few  houses  bravely  face 
the  thundering  sea,  and  one  or  two  were  recently 
washed  away,  I  was  told,  in  a  great  storm. 

The  day  after  our  picnic  we  went  by  motor  to 
Easthampton,  that  lovely  old  town  with  one  of 
the  finest  main  streets  in  America,  shadowed  by 
elms,  chestnuts,  and  maples.  In  the  center  of  it, 
beyond  the  great  flagstaff,  is  a  quiet  little  ceme- 
tery rolling  down  to  a  stream,  whereon  a  swan 
or  two  drifts  and  dreams  the  hours  away,  like 
those  sleeping  under  the  hill.  It  was  here  that 
"Home,  Sweet  Home"  was  written,  and  the  house 
where  Paine  penned  his  immortal  words  is  still 
standing,  a  shingled  cottage  with  old  doors  and 
windows  and  cupboards,  now  made  into  a  little 
musuem.  John  Drew,  Augustus  Thomas,  and 

116 


SOUTHAMPTON  TO  MONTAUK  POINT 

Victor  Harris  are  among  those  who  make  their 
summer  homes  in  Easthampton,  and  there  is  a 
colony  of  as  interesting  folk  as  one  could  wish 
to  meet.  By  no  means  so  smart  as  Southampton, 
this  town  has  a  charm  distinctly  its  own,  a  rich 
tone  and  color  like  some  old  volume.  And  it  is 
an  old  village,  for  it  was  settled  in  1649.  I  know 
of  no  better  place  to  wander  about.  There  are 
byways  in  every  direction,  and  there  is  always 
that  broad,  heavenly,  and  shadowy  main  street 
to  come  back  to.  No  wonder  Paine  could  write 
his  deathless  poem  in  such  a  spot! 

Amagansett,  another  old  village,  as  fragrant 
as  fresh  hay,  lies  just  beyond,  drowsing  the  long 
summer  hours  away,  dozing  peacefully  through 
lazy  afternoons. 

And  then  you  reach  a  poorer  hamlet,  with  the 
delightful  name  of  Promised  Land.  We  saw  a 
tiny  cottage  here  by  the  edge  of  the  road  that 
spelt  serenity,  if  ever  a  house  did.  It  was  cov- 
ered with  thick  vines,  and  its  three  stone  chim- 
neys rose  like  protecting  bastions.  The  clipped 
lawn  told  of  order  and  harmony  and  a  sense  of 

117 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

decent  pride,  and  I  imagined  charming  old  ladies 
living  here  on  a  patrimony,  content  with  life, 
happy  in  a  hamlet  with  such  a  heavenly  name. 
What  a  place  for  the  sunset  days  of  one's  allotted 
span! 

Until  you  reach  Montauk,  this  is  the  last  clus- 
ter of  houses  before  the  point  is  finally  won. 
Many  people  had  discouraged  us  from  going  be- 
yond Easthampton,  saying  the  roads  were  impos- 
sible, if  not  utterly  impassable.  But  do  not  be 
deceived.  The  cinder-path  that  begins  almost  as 
soon  as  you  are  out  of  Promised  Land,  and  soon 
develops  into  a  good  dirt  road,  is  fine  and  hard, 
equally  good  for  foot-farers  or  motorists.  True, 
it  is  narrow,  and  if  you  are  in  a  car,  you  will 
have  to  watch  out  for  other  travelers  and  turn  at 
the  right  spot,  as  trolleys  must  delay  at  given 
sections  when  there  is  only  a  single  track.  Be- 
yond this  there  will  be  no  difficulty,  and  soon 
you  will  find  yourself  entering  a  locality  as  bleak 
as  that  country  described  in  "Wuthering 
Heights."  The  moon  must  look  like  this. 
Gaunt  ribs  of  sand  rise  on  the  ocean  side,  and 

118 


SOUTHAMPTON  TO  MONTAUK  POINT 

here  and  there  is  a  lonely  coast-guard  hut.  It  is 
as  forlorn  as  the  devastated  regions  of  France, 
with  formations  in  the  dunes  like  shell-craters. 
Only  the  tanks  are  missing,  and  the  stark  lines  of 
telegraph  poles  make  you  think  of  the  crosses  in 
Flanders  Fields,  row  on  endless  row. 

There  is  waving  salt  grass,  and  once  in  a  while 
a  pink  marshmallow  rose  will  lift  its  pathetic  face 
in  the  sun.  The  sand-dunes  take  on  a  purplish 
tint,  and  there  are  purple  shadows  like  miniature 
caves,  with  the  sea  forever  chanting  and  beating 
its  tireless  hands  upon  the  lonesome  shore.  Scrub- 
pines  appear,  and  then  a  little  forest  of  scrub- 
oaks,  until  you  imagine  you  are  in  Italy.  A 
lonely  railroad-track  follows  you  on  the  left;  and 
that,  with  a  wireless  station  farther  on,  are  the 
only  reminders  of  civilization.  You  are  sud- 
denly and  gloriously  out  of  touch  with  the  world; 
and  then  you  realize  that,  through  the  miracle  of 
a  modern  invention,  you  can  never  quite  get 
away  from  the  vast  city  you  have  left  so  far 
behind  you. 

The  island  grows  very  thin  here,  and  with  the 

121 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

loud  ocean  on  your  right,  you  also  have  glimpses 
of  Napeague  Bay,  Fort  Pond,  and  Great  Pond 
on  your  left.  It  is  a  constantly  and  curiously 
changing  scene  through  which  you  wander.  One 
moment  you  exclaim,  "Why,  this  is  Scotland!" 
and  the  next  there  will  come  a  definite  dip  in  the 
land,  and  you  will  discover  farmers  tilling  the 
soil,  and  think  you  are  in  Connecticut.  It  is  as- 
tonishing that  so  restricted  a  territory  can  con- 
tain so  many  shifting  scenes. 

And  now  the  lighthouse,  which  has  stood  on 
the  point  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  years, 
gazing  with  its  great  eye  from  the  edge  of  the 
world  out  to  the  limitless  ocean.  The  present 
keeper  has  been  there  nine  years,  and  his  assistant 
told  us  that  last  winter,  in  a  heavy  storm,  they 
were  virtually  cut  off  from  the  world  for  three 
months,  and  he  and  the  keeper's  young  daughter 
trudged  through  drifts  of  snow  to  Promised  Land, 
nine  miles  away,  for  groceries  and  other  supplies, 
and  had,  as  one  can  imagine,  a  hard  time  of  it. 
This  young  assistant,  Mr.  Kierstead,  had  been 
slightly  shell-shocked  in  the  war,  and  he  found 

122 


"  With  its  great  eye  to  the  limitless  ocean  " 


SOUTHAMPTON  TO  MONTAUK  POINT 

the  quiet  life  at  the  point  soothing  to  his  nerves. 

"But  isn't  it  lonely  for  you  all?"  was  the  in- 
evitable question,  asked  of  every  lighthouse- 
keeper. 

"Oh,  maybe,  a  bit;  but  we  love  it.  And  there 
are  plenty  of  visitors  in  summer.  In  winter  we 
can  read,  and  we  have  a  happy  time  of  it." 

The  quarters  where  these  two  families  live  are 
as  neat  as  wax,  and  I  can  imagine  how  the  fresh 
salt  air  helps  one's  appetite.  We  grew  hungry, 
seeing  a  delicious  plate  of  hot  cakes  on  the  table. 

During  the  Spanish-American  War  certain  of 
our  troops  were  camped  at  Montauk  Point,  and 
the  spot  hummed  with  soldiers  and  Sunday  vis- 
itors. Now  it  has  almost  forgotten  those  busy 
days,  and  gone  definitely  back  to  its  natural  calm 
and  peace. 

Gordon  and  I  were  motored  back  to  Southamp- 
ton, and  there  we  took  a  train  to  town.  This  was 
always  an  anticlimax,  for  no  matter  how  tired 
one  might  be,  after  footing  it  here  and  there,  or 
even  after  motoring,  one  had  no  desire,  particu- 
larly after  a  period  of  exultant  freedom,  to  be- 

125 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

come  part  of  a  common  package — a  bean,  as  it 
were,  joggling  against  other  beans  in  a  stuffy 
smoker  or  even  in  a  parlor-car. 

Of  course  the  ideal  way  to  return  would  be 
not  in  a  motor,  but  in  an  airplane — exultant  free- 
dom magnified  a  hundredfold,  since  there  is  no 
sensation  of  aloneness  and  aloofness  to  compare 
with  a  journey  through  the  air.  To  get  back 
thus  romantically  and  ecstatically  to  the  worka- 
day world  would  be  the  essence  of  delight.  But 
one  cannot  ask,  and  expect  to  receive,  every  known 
form  of  joy  on  this  prosaic  earth;  and  so  any 
companion  I  ever  had,  free  from  such  foolish 
wishes  as  mine,  was  always  content  to  purchase 
a  conventional  ticket  and  get  back  to  New  York 
in  a  humdrum  way. 


126 


CHAPTER  VI 

AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND,  CONEY  ISLAND 

IN  every  full-grown  man,  if  he  be  of  the  right 
stuff,  there  is  a  human  desire  to  play  which, 
indulged  in  at  the  proper  intervals,  gives  us  poor 
humans  that  balance  so  necessary  if  we  would 
keep  our  sanity.  Moreover,  it  keeps  us  young 
and  makes  us  better. 

I  confess  that  about  once  each  summer  I  crave 
Coney  Island,  as  a  child  craves  candy  or  a  toy 
balloon.  Something  steals  over  me,  something 
whispers  in  my  ear,  "This  is  the  very  night  for 
a  ride  to  that  mad,  glad  beach,  with  thousands 
of  other  fools.  Come,  play  with  me,  and  be 
gloriously  young  again !" 

I  cannot  resist  the  siren,  or  whoever  it  is  that 
thus  robs  me  of  what  trifling  dignity  I  may  have. 
When  the  word  comes,  when  the  impulse  is  upon 

129 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

me,  I  simply  obey ;  and  never  yet  have  I  regretted 
any  wild  spree  at  Coney  Island. 

There  are  plenty  of  motors  to  take  one  there, 
if  it  is  too  tedious  to  go  by  train  or  boat.  They 
are  all  over  New  York,  on  various  corners  of 
Broadway;  and  the  magnetic  call  of  the  "barker" 
who  lures  folk  into  his  whirling  chariot  is  loud 
along  that  sparkling  thoroughfare  on  midsummer 
evenings.  All  you  have  to  do  is  pay  your  dollar, 
or  whatever  the  rate  is  now,  and  jump  aboard. 

You  are  whirled  through  the  vast  city  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  over  into  Brooklyn; 
and  soon  you  find  yourself  tumbling  along  the 
motor  parkway  where,  as  a  boy,  I  used  to  ride  a 
wheel  and  miraculously  escape  every  truck  that 
came  along,  and  never  dreamed  of  danger.  In 
and  out  of  hurrying  traffic  we  all  used  to  speed; 
and  then  one  day  they  built  a  side  path  for  the 
cyclists  alone.  Then  there  were  so  many  of  us — 
we  seemed  to  multiply  like  rabbits  in  those 
halcyon  days — that  they  built  a  path  on  the  other 
side,  so  that  there  was  one-way  traveling  only. 
This,  I  recall  that  we  all  thought,  robbed  the 

130 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

sport  of  some  of  its  zest.  The  element  of  danger 
had  been  entirely  eliminated.  It  was  as  though 
you  took  the  jam  off  our  bread. 

Youth,  youth,  that  fears  nothing!  How  won- 
derful you  are !  Though  I  used  to  go  at  a  terrific 
rate  on  my  bicycle,  and  fear  no  man,  to-day  I 
confess  that  even  behind  the  best  chauffeur,  I 
have  a  little  tremor  of  the  heart.  If  I  drove  the 
machine  myself,  maybe  I  would  not  be  so  fool- 
ishly afraid — (yet  is  it  being  foolishly  afraid?) ; 
for  they  tell  me  that  sooner  or  later  every  driver 
will  get  the  speed  mania,  and  take  chances  on  the 
most  crowded  thoroughfare  or  along  the  shining, 
empty  road,  though  it  turn  and  twist  every  few 
rods. 

Everybody  seems  to  be  going  to,  or  coming 
from,  Coney  Island  on,  say,  a  July  or  August 
evening.  Everyone  is,  or  has  been,  making  a 
night  of  it.  And  soon  you  see  in  the  dim  dis- 
tance, like  so  many  fallen  stars,  the  lights  of  the 
playground,  shining  like  diamonds  on  the  beach. 
Or  is  it  a  cascade  of  wonder  tossed  up  on  the  shore 
by  opulent  mermaids — necklaces  that  they  have 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

wearied  of,  golden  bracelets  that  have  tired  them, 
glowing  gems  that  they  once  wore  in  their  hair, 
and  now  throw  nonchalantly  on  the  coast  for  the 
delight  of  us  poor  mortals'?  At  any  rate,  there 
they  are — those  gleaming  miles  of  phosphores- 
cence, part  of  the  wonderful  city  of  magic  in  the 
midst  of  which  you  will  soon  be  playing  like  a 
child  of  ten. 

Cars,  cars  everywhere,  with  men  calling  to  you 
that  their  little  foot  of  earth  is  the  best  place  to 
park  your  machine — if  you  are  running  your  own. 
If  you  are  in  one  of  those  public  conveyances  that 
accept  anybody  with  the  money  for  a  passenger, 
you  feel  that  you  are  just  that  much  more  one  of 
the  vast  multitude  that  is  scrambling  for  an  en- 
trance to  this  place  of  simple  pleasure;  and  you 
are  glad,  as  I  always  am,  that  you  have  not  the 
responsibility  of  a  motor  to  add  to  the  troubles 
of  this  world. 

There  is  a  certain  feeling  of  opulence  in  pur- 
chasing one  long  ticket  at  a  window  which  will 
admit  you,  as  it  is  variously  punched  or  torn,  to 
every  show  inside;  and  this  understanding  of  the 

132 


•stt 


"  The  wonderful  city  of  magic  " 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

weakness  of  human  nature  is  only  one  more  mani- 
festation of  the  success  of  Coney  Island.  Who- 
ever conceived  the  idea  of  inviting  patrons  to  buy 
just  one  ticket  for  a  round  sum,  is  as  knowing  as 
the  pundits  of  old ;  and  my  hat  is  off  to  his  massive 
brain.  I  wish  I  had  the  wit  thus  to  read  the 
heart  of  my  fellow  man.  To  give  up  a  dollar, 
let  us  say,  knowing  that  you  will  be  taken  care 
of  for  the  rest  of  the  evening;  that  all  the  side- 
shows will  be  an  open  book  to  you,  without  the 
annoyance  of  bothering  further  with  coupons — 
that  seems  to  me  the  perfection  of  Yankee  fore- 
sight, the  best  device  of  a  system  that  has  been 
studied  minutely  to  discover  how  to  ease  the  bur- 
dens of  the  tired  public. 

It  was  the  late  Frederick  Thompson  and  his 
partner,  Dundy,  who  invented  Luna  Park — two 
young  men  who  ran  the  Hippodrome  when  it  was 
first  opened,  and  who  had  a  genius  for  knowing 
what  people  wanted  in  the  way  of  entertainment. 
Luna  Park  is  but  a  slice  of  Coney  Island;  but 
within  its  confines  may  be  found  almost  any 
known  form  of  innocent  amusement.  Roller- 

135 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

coasters,  merry-go-rounds,  swings,  shooting-galler- 
ies, mystic  Moorish  mazes,  elephants,  camels,  hot 
dogs — by  which  is  meant  bologna  sausages — pea- 
nuts, popcorn,  dance-floors,  jazz — all  these,  and 
many  another  bit  of  life's  make-believe  may  be 
had  and  enjoyed  if  one  has  provided  himself  with 
a  long,  long  ticket,  or  will  take  the  trouble  to 
dig  down  into  his  pocket  for  the  necessary  nickel 
or  dime. 

I  have  seen  men  and  women  of  most  serious 
mien  enter  Luna  Park,  determined,  judging  by 
their  countenances,  not  to  lose  their  dignity;  yet 
they  have  emerged  from  some  indulgence  in  the 
spirit  of  carnival,  having  been  wise  enough,  as 
Stevenson  put  it,  to  make  fools  of  themselves. 
They  have  had  their  photographs  taken  in  some 
grotesque  attitude — on  a  camel,  perhaps — and 
waited,  childlike,  while  the  film  was  finished,  so 
that  they  could  take  it  home  as  a  souvenir  of  a 
happy  evening;  and  doubtless  they  have  pasted  it 
in  a  scrapbook  which  they  will  keep  forever,  in- 
scribed with  the  date  of  their  dissipation,  their 
fall  from  grace,  and  hand  it  down  to  their  chil- 

136 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

dren  as  a  sign  that  grown-ups  can,  once  in  a 
while,  lose  their  solemnity  and  be  all  the  more 
human  for  it. 

Coney  Island  is  one  vast  slot  machine;  and  if 
there  is  a  word  that  describes  it  better  than  an- 
other, it  is  movement.  Everything  shakes,  or 
glides,  or  shimmies,  or  jumps,  or  tumbles,  or 
twists — nothing  ever  stands  still.  That  would 
be  unthinkable.  The  American  people  love  noise 
and  confusion,  and  the  more  of  it  they  get  the 
better  they  like  it.  Witness  the  success  of  our 
cabarets.  Coney  Island  might  stand  as  a  symbol 
of  our  national  consciousness.  Its  riot  and  con- 
stant gestures  are  the  expression  of  what  the  mul- 
titude like  best.  It  is  sublimated  madness;  but 
it  is  typical  of  our  easy  forgetting,  our  ability  to 
throw  the  serious  business  of  life  to  the  winds  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  when  it  is  necessary. 
I  have  never  seen  any  ill-humor  at  Coney  Island, 
even  in  the  hectic  days  before  prohibition.  The 
crowds  go  there,  determined  to  have  a  good  time. 
They  do  not  intend  to  be  cheated  of  their  happi- 
ness. An  easy  manner  pervades  them  all,  a  slap 

137 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

on  the  back  by  a  total  stranger  is  never  resented, 
and  everyone  smiles,  everyone  laughs.  It  is  the 
thing  to  do.  As  Polly  anna  was  the  "glad"  book, 
so  Coney  Island  is  the  "glad"  place.  Your  wor- 
ries will  not  be  tolerated  there. 

Why  people  should  pay  money  to  be  made  fools 
of  is  one  of  the  eternal  mysteries.  There  is  a 
certain  spot  in  one  park  where  a  lady's  skirts 
are  literally  blown  over  her  head  the  instant  she 
passes  a  gate — having  paid  ten  cents  for  the 
privilege.  A  gust  of  wind  which  she  knows  not 
of  sends  her  gown  upward;  and  this  would  be 
distressing  enough  in  itself,  but  a  greater  horror 
confronts  her.  She  hastily  adjusts  her  skirt,  and 
then  hears  gales  of  laughter,  looks  ahead  of  her 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  and  sees  row  after 
row  of  people  who  have  already  passed  through 
the  ordeal,  and  are  sitting  there  waiting  for  the 
next  victim.  Having  been  made  ludicrous  them- 
selves— having  had  their  straw  hats  blown  off, 
if  they  are  men — they  love  nothing  better  than 
to  watch  your  confusion.  And  there  they  are, 
cruelly  awaiting  you.  But  you  are  not  angry. 

138 


A  slice  of  Coney  Island  " 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

You  can't  be.  That  would  be  fatal,  and  entirely 
out  of  the  spirit  of  the  place.  You  smile  a  sick- 
ish  smile,  plunge  forward  as  best  you  may  and 
join  the  others  safely  on  the  other  side.  You 
are  now  like  the  lad  who  has  just  been  initiated. 
How  eagerly  you  pounce  upon  the  next  poor  fool, 
to  give  him  a  taste  of  the  .anguish  you  have  exoe- 
rienced ! 

Suddenly,  having  had  your  fill  of  this  laughter, 
you  see  a  mass  of  smooth  boards  close  by — a  shin- 
ing hill,  almost  perpendicular,  down  which  dozens 
of  men  and  women  are  tumbling — perpetual  mo- 
tion again;  yes,  and  perpetual  emotion.  They 
land,  after  a  swift  fall,  in  a  dry  whirlpool  of 
rings,  which  revolve  rapidly  in  every  direction. 
But  one  cannot  escape  these  rings.  They  are 
contiguous,  and  they  never  cease  whirling.  If 
you  are  fortunate  enough  to  leave  one,  and  think 
yourself  free  at  last,  you  find  yourself  imme- 
diately upon  another;  and  thus  the  game  goes 
merrily  on  until  you  are  pushed  by  the  latest 
comer  out  into  a  sort  of  trench,  looking  and  feel- 
ing idiotic  and  dizzy,  and  again  facing  a  group 

141 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

of  people  who  have  been  through  the  agony  and 
are  now  convulsed  with  mirth  at  your  distress. 

And  you  paid  to  have  this  laughter  greet  you ! 
You  went  into  it  with  your  eyes  open,  and  there- 
fore you  have  no  one  to  blame  but  yourself. 
Such  is  the  good-nature  of  Americans,  that  I  saw 
one  young  fellow,  who  had  not  dreamed  of  the 
whirling  wheels  when  he  took  his  first  tumble, 
immediately  take  out  his  pocket  comb  and  a  tiny 
mirror  and  pretend  to  make  a  hurried  toilet  as 
he  turned  and  twisted  on  his  uncomfortable  seat. 
That  made  the  crowd  watching  him  his  everlast- 
ing slave,  and  he  came  out  triumphant.  He  had 
seen  that  the  joke  was  on  himself,  and  he  had  the 
wit  to  make  a  monkey  of  himself  as  he  was  tossed 
about. 

Undismayed,  you  seek  the  next  bit  of  fun. 
You  wouldn't  stop  now  for  the  world.  For  you 
have  been  innoculated  with  the  germ  of  the  spirit 
of  carnival,  and  there  is  no  hope  for  you.  The 
Barrel  of  Love — yes,  of  course  you'll  try  that ! 

So  you  allow  yourself — having  given  up  an- 
other coupon — to  be  strapped  within  a  barrel, 

142 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

while  someone  else  is  bound  on  the  opposite  side, 
facing  you,  two  miserable,  concave  figures.  Then 
both  are  twirled  and  twisted  and  rolled  and 
heaved  and  dumped  this  way  and  that — again, 
of  course,  to  the  accompaniment  of  laughter  on 
the  other  side  of  the  ropes  which  separate  you  from 
the  happy  mob.  You  almost  experience  sea- 
sickness. But  what  of  that?  This  is  a  night  of 
complete  abandon,  and  you  must  not  be  ill  now; 
for  the  scenic  railway,  the  merry-go-round,  the 
dark  tunnel  and  a  dozen  other  haunts  of  laughter 
yet  await  your  coming.  But  the  Barrel  of  Love 
does  seem  a  bit  too  much  for  anyone.  Looping 
the  Loop  is  easier. 

I  once  saw  a  mother  take  her  infant  child  in 
the  latter.  Maybe  she  believed  in  preparedness, 
and  thus  early  determined  that  her  offspring 
should  become  accustomed  to  astounding  pleas- 
ures. He  would  grow  up  to  be  a  Coney  Island 
fiend,  undoubtedly.  At  any  rate,  there  the  child 
was,  in  its  mother's  arms,  little  knowing  the  dip 
and  whirl  that  awaited  it.  Criminal?  Perhaps. 
But  part  again  of  Coney  Island's  marvelous  and 

H3 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

non-understandable  psychology.  For  the  relief 
of  the  reader,  I  would  like  to  say  that  I  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  Loop  to  see  if  the  child  survived 
when  the  wild  rush  was  over.  It  had.  I  turned 
away  much  easier  in  my  mind,  but  still  unable 
to  comprehend  such  a  parent.  She  was  a  new 
kind  of  mortal  to  me.  Doubtless  her  child  will 
grow  to  a  robust  manhood,  and,  at  the  ripe  age 
of  ninety-two  or  thereabouts,  expire  quietly  in 
his  bed. 

The  Rolling  Waves  attract  you  next,  perhaps. 
On  a  floor  that  perpetually  heaves  through  some 
clever  electrical  contrivance,  and  which  is  painted 
green  to  resemble  the  tossing  ocean,  chairs  are 
sent  forth,  like  ships  from  a  wharf.  Two  people 
sit  in  these,  and  one  seeks  to  guide  the  chair 
around  the  "sea"  and  try  his  best  not  to  bump 
into  another  "ship."  It  is  great  fun,  and  there 
are  always  loud  shrieks  and  yells.  When  you 
miraculously  come  back  to  port,  the  attendant 
always  suggests  another  trip;  and  rather  than  get 
out  of  your  straps,  you  stay  comfortably  in. 
Thus  do  the  dimes  disappear  at  Coney  Island! 

144 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

It  takes  strength  of  character  to  resist  a  "barker." 
It  is  his  profession  to  urge  and  cajole.  He  has 
been  a  close  student  of  human  nature.  He  sizes 
you  up  at  a  glance.  He  knows  how  to  lure  you 
into  his  net,  whether  he  is  selling  seats  on  the 
scenic  railway  or  bidding  you  see  the  very  fattest 
woman  in  all  the  world.  His  megaphone  is  loud 
in  the  land  of  Coney  Island,  and  never  does  his 
rasping  voice  cease  for  an  instant.  Somewhere 
he  is  always  calling  to  you,  and  his  eloquent 
appeals,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  win  you  in 
the  end.  I  heard  one  "barker"  cry,  on  behalf 
of  his  vaudeville  entertainment, 

"Come,  buy  your  tickets,  and  step  in  line — 
I  'm  sure  the  show  will  be  very  fine !" 

I  could  not  resist  so  natural  a  poet — the  antithesis 
of  the  verse  libre  school,  which  has  so  often  an- 
noyed us  all.  They  should  go  to  Coney  Island, 
and  learn  something  of  scansion  from  this  inspired 
"barker." 

Merry-go-rounds — carousels  is  a  more  impor- 
tant way  of  naming  them — have  always  fasci- 

H5 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

nated  me.  I  like  trying  to  capture  the  brass  ring, 
even  now;  and  when,  as  so  often  happens  at  a 
place  like  Coney  Island,  where  the  crowds  are 
indeed  dense,  I  am  forced  to  take  an  inside  seat, 
which  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  reach  for 
the  rings  as  we  whirl  past,  I  am  consumed  with 
grief.  I  like  the  mechanical  spanking  steed  on 
the  outer  rim — those  balky  horses  that  leap  and 
plunge — not  the  quiet  and  unromantic  carriages 
near  the  music-box.  They  seem  to  have  been 
put  there  for  grandma  and  grandpa  when  they 
bring  the  children  out  in  the  afternoon.  No! 
I  always  crave  the  exciting  outside  edge.  And 
oh,  the  thrill  of  getting  the  coveted  brass  circle, 
and  winning  another  ride  for  nothing!  When 
will  one  be  too  old  to  lose  this  feeling  of  joy! 
I  wonder. 

I  have  always  said  I  would  know  I  had  crossed 
the  Rubicon  when  I  could  go  on  with  my  break- 
fast and  let  the  morning  letters  wait.  I  would 
like  to  add  that  I  will  know  that  my  youth  has 
definitely  gone  when  I  no  longer  am  willing  to 
leap  on  a  merry-go-round  and  strive  valiantly  for 

146 


14  Toboggans  that  splash  " 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

the  brass  ring.  Even  to  the  tune  of  "Nearer,  My 
God,  to  Thee,"  which  was  actually  played  by 
the  organ  when  we  were  twirled  about  on  a  flash- 
ing carousel  one  night,  I  can  still  enjoy  the  jour- 
ney; and  I  pity  with  all  my  heart  any  man  or 
woman  who  cannot. 

Also  I  like  that  sickening  sensation  when  the 
car  on  the  scenic  railway  plunges,  in  sudden  dark- 
ness, down  a  sharp  declivity,  and  seems  about  to 
leave  the  track.  I  like  the  yells  of  terror  from 
my  feminine  neighbors — I  know  they  are  half 
put  on ;  and  I  like  the  girl  who  uses  the  imminent 
danger  as  an  excuse  to  lean  closer  to  her  lover  and 
have  his  stalwart  arms  hold  her  safely  in.  I  like 
to  see  humanity  out  on  a  holiday,  nibbling  its 
popcorn,  chewing  its  gum,  weighing  itself,  buy- 
ing its  salt-water  taffy,  dancing  its  tired  legs  off, 
flirting  outrageously,  gaping  before  side-shows, 
slipping  down  toboggans  that  finally  splash  in 
turbulent  water — in  fact,  making  a  complete  fool 
of  itself.  A  shop-girl  and  her  sailor  beau  is  a 
beautiful  sight  to  me.  His  dare-devil  extrava- 
gance, and  her  feminine  clinging  to  his  side  in  the 

149 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

surge  of  a  place  like  Coney  Island — what  could 
be  more  healthily  young  and  delightful  7 

I  like  to  see  people  staring  at  a  certain  booth 
where  candy,  for  some  undiscovered  reason,  is 
sold  in  a  form  that  resembles  lamb  chops,  roast 
beef,  and  sausages!  What  brain  conceived  this 
curious  idea*?  Why  should  delicious  candy  be 
any  more  delicious  under  a  strange  disguise  of 
red  meat*?  By  what  process  of  reasoning  is  it 
supposed  to  take  on  sweeter  qualities,  thus  camou- 
flaged'? (I  had  vowed  never  to  use  that  word 
again;  but  one  can't  escape  it!) 

I  suppose  it  is  the  old  P.  T.  Barnum  theory 
of  mob  psychology:  people  like  to  be  fooled. 
And,  having  been  successfully  fooled  themselves, 
they  like  nothing  better  than  seeing  someone  else 
fooled.  We  pay  to  be  made  ridiculous;  and,  in 
our  good-natured  Yankee  way,  we  do  not  com- 
plain when  we  discover  that  the  joke  has  been 
on  us.  No,  indeed!  We  take  pleasure  in  ob- 
serving the  next  fellow's  discomfiture,  followed 
immediately  and  inevitably  by  his  fatuous  grin. 

Corn  on  the  cob  must  be  eaten  at  Coney  Island. 
150 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

Your  visit  is  not  complete  unless  you  partake  of 
this  succulent  food.  Likewise  you  must  buy  a 
"hot  dog."  And  always  you  crave  another. 
The  real  way  to  go  to  this  vast  playground  is  to 
arrive  about  dinner-time,  and  enter  one  of  the 
many  good  restaurants  along  the  main  thorough- 
fare. In  some  of  them  you  will  find  as  bright  a 
cabaret  as  in  any  Broadway  haunt,  and  the  food, 
too,  will  be  equally  fine — and  probably  less  ex- 
pensive. But  do  not  over-eat;  for  one  of  the 
great  pleasures  of  this  racketty,  rollicking  resort, 
consists  in  nibbling  at  this  and  that  dainty  all 
during  the  evening.  One's  appetites — physical 
and  mental — never  seem  to  be  satisfied  when  one 
is  visiting  Coney  Island.  Both  the  brain  and  the 
body  are  stuffed  on  such  an  expedition,  and  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  is  a  wonder  we  do  not  die 
when  the  trip  is  over.  Vendors  are  importunate 
at  every  turning,  and  as  glib  as  the  "barkers." 
They,  too,  are  difficult  to  resist;  and  the  odor  of 
fragrant  fresh  corn  is,  to  me,  a  temptation  al- 
ways. 

What  is  there  in  aiming  at  a  target  that  is 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

so  irresistible?  The  shooting-galleries  are  for- 
ever popular ;  and  once  in  a  while,  when  some  lad 
comes  along  who  has  Buffalo  Bill's  unerring  eye, 
a  crowd  will  gather  to  watch  his  crack  shots; 
and  all  but  the  owner  of  the  booth  will  urge  him 
on.  For  glass  is  expensive,  and  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  replace  the  ducks  and  globes  that  are 
shattered  by  such  a  fellow,  who  is  often  fresh 
from  the  army  and  likes  to  "show  off"  before  his 
best  girl.  Small  boys  look  on  enviously,  pray- 
ing for  the  day  when  they  can  do  likewise,  and 
hear  the  little  bell  sound  that  tells  of  the  hitting 
of  the  bull's-eye;  and  their  idolatrous  gaze  fol- 
lows him  down  the  street  when  he  nonchalantly 
strolls  away,  his  girl  on  his  arm,  looking  for  new 
make-believe  worlds  to  conquer. 

The  monstrous  swings  may  prove  the  next  mag- 
net in  one's  peripatetic  fever — swings  that  sweep 
in  all  directions  from  a  huge  center  pole,  and 
give  one  a  real  sensation  of  freedom.  But  more 
than  likely  the  Bump-the-Bumps  will  win  you  first. 

Huddled   in  with   about  nine  other   idiots — 

152 


"You  wouldn't  stop  now  for  the  world " 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

the  more  of  you,  the  better — you  find  yourself 
holding  your  hat  between  your  knees,  and  bob- 
bing about  in  a  circular  car  this  way  and  that; 
zigzagging,  terror-stricken,  over  innumerable  ob- 
stacles; lurching,  falling,  screaming,  scrambling, 
growing  dizzier  and  dizzier,  and  finally  doing  it 
all  over  again,  though  your  hat  is  crushed  and 
your  arms  are  black  and  blue. 

Madness*?  Yes.  Midsummer  madness.  And 
it  takes  hold  of  us,  this  wild  insanity,  as  inevitably 
as  the  warm  months  wheel  round.  Coney  Island 
is  a  blessed  escape  from  the  boredom  of  routine; 
a  merciful  concoction  that  has  all  the  effect  of  a 
dozen  highballs  with  none  of  the  disastrous  next- 
day  anticlimax.  Most  of  us  need  relaxation,  and 
need  it  badly,  living,  as  we  do,  in  the  whirligig 
of  New  York,  at  high  tension  and  top  speed. 
Our  inhibitions  disappear  at  such  piquant  sum- 
mer resorts;  and  the  psychologists,  who  are  so 
learned  in  the  matter  of  poor  mortals  letting  off 
steam,  would  be  the  first  to  recommend  dear  old 
mad,  glad  Coney  to  the  perennially  weary  busi- 

155 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

ness  man  who  does  n't  have  sense  enough  to  know 
when  to  quit  living  on  a  schedule. 

It  is  interesting  to  note,  every  year,  the  changes 
that  take  place  at  Coney.  The  public  would  be- 
come satiated  if  novelties  were  not  devised,  if 
new  fillups  were  not  invented  to  take  the  mind 
from  the  world  of  humdrum  affairs.  What 
seemed  wonderful  last  season  may  be  absolutely 
out  of  date  this  summer.  And  just  as  a  clever 
cook  prepares  a  new  dish  every  now  and  then  to 
tempt  the  palate  of  the  master  of  the  household, 
so  the  men  behind  the  scenes  of  America's  mad 
playground  wrack  their  brains  for  fresh  ideas. 
Catchy  slogans  must  be  written;  and  sometimes 
these  alone  are  sufficient  to  cause  some  old  device 
to  take  on  a  new  lease  of  life.  It  is  as  though 
a  woman  dyed  her  hair  and  appeared  younger 
this  year  through  the  illusion. 

It  is  no  small  task  to  keep  up  the  standard; 
and  if  anyone  thinks  it  is  nothing  to  get  out 
signs  that  will  attract  the  public's  keen  eye,  let 
him  try  his  hand  at  Steeplechase  or  Luna  Park. 
Here  is  a  world  all  its  own,  just  as  the  motion- 


AMERICA'S  MAD  PLAYGROUND 

picture  field  is  a  place  apart;  and  a  certain  type 
of  mind  is  necessary  if  one  is  to  be  successful 
here.  The  art  of  entertaining  the  crowd — the 
gum-chewing,  blase  crowd  that  has  ceased  to  be 
thrilled  at  old  melodramas  and  now  craves  the 
more  exciting  food  of  the  movies — is  not  some- 
thing that  can  be  learned  in  a  day,  or  a  week, 
or  even  in  a  year.  And  I  am  not  misusing  the 
sacred  word  "art."  For  I  am  conscious  of  the 
serious  problem  that  confronts  those  who  would 
seek  to  make  the  people  laugh — or  even  smile. 
What  a  responsibility  to  be  a  clown,  and  feel 
that  at  every  performance  you  must  evoke  that 
loud  whirlwind  of  mirth,  or  else  go  down  to  dis- 
aster as  an  entertainer!  The  very  thought  is 
enough  to  chill  the  blood  of  a  sensitive  artist; 
but  because  a  real  clown  is  an  artist,  and  there- 
fore keeps  within  himself  forever  the  heart  of  a 
child,  with  all  a  child's  enthusiasm,  he  goes  on 
and,  childlike,  draws  the  multitude  to  him. 

When  the  so-called  Blue  Laws  are  spoken  of, 
I  always  smile.  How  little  comprehension  of 
humanity  and  its  sorrows,  the  framers  of  this 

157 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

wretched  legislation  have !  Do  they  not  realize 
that  life,  to  the  poor,  is  not  always  beautiful? 
That  long  hours  behind  a  counter  or  running  an 
elevator,  or  doing  any  of  the  other  utilitarian 
acts  so  many  of  us  must  perform,  hardly  makes 
for  happiness?  The  grind  of  life  must  be  offset 
by  a  healthy  dissipation — an  indulgence,  if  you 
wish  to  call  it  that.  There  must  be  outlets  for 
suppressed  energy  and  wholesome  desires.  I 
doubt  if  any  of  the  sour-visaged  Blue  Law  men 
and  women  have  ever  been  to  Coney  Island;  for 
they  probably  think  of  it  as  an  immoral,  tempest- 
uous spot,  unworthy  a  visit.  A  few  days  there 
would  do  them  good. 

To  be  prim  is  not  to  be  dignified;  and  I  know 
of  nothing  so  undesirable  as  spurious  virtue,  ac- 
companied inevitably  by  sanctimonious  smirks. 
Give  me,  in  preference,  the  raucous  laughter  of 
underbred  but  healthily  happy  crowds  who.  for- 
getting for  a  brief  interval  the  sorrows  of  this 
world — made  more  sorrowful  by  the  inclusion  in 
it  of  Blue  Law  jack-asses — let  themselves  go,  in 
such  a  spot  as  delirious,  delectable  Coney  Island. 

158 


CHAPTER  VII 

SAG    HARBOR    AND    THE    NORTH    SHORE 

ONE  might  liken  Long  Island  to  a  slice  of 
bread  cut  lengthwise  from  a  Vienna  loaf. 
Many  people,  when  they  eat  bread,  leave  the  crust 
and  go  only  after  the  middle.  But  once  you  de- 
cide to  put  your  teeth  into  Long  Island,  as  it 
were,  the  process  would  be  reversed:  you  would 
go  definitely  for  the  outer  rim,  all  those  fasci- 
nating spots  along  the  shore,  both  north  and 
south,  and  leave  the  interior  almost  entirely  alone. 
Yet  now  and  then  there  is  a  fine  plum  in  the 
middle,  for  there  are  lakes  and  bays  that  seem  to 
have  fallen,  as  in  that  sentimental  song  on  Ire- 
land, from  the  very  sky,  and  tiny  towns  have 
sprung  up  naturally  on  their  edges. 

Such  a  village  is  Sag  Harbor,  leaning  out  over 
Shelter  Island  Sound,  with  Noyack  Bay  on  its 

159 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

left,  a  shadowy,  quiet  place  of  dreams,  with 
curious  old  houses  that  remind  one  of  New  Eng- 
land in  its  most  romantic  precincts — houses  that 
have  stood  for  generations  and  heard  the  noisy 
world  rush  by.  And  it  is  curious  how,  in  a  little 
American  town  like  this  one  will  run  across  a 
Chinese  laundryman  who  has  set  up  his  shop  far 
from  his  native  land.  A  Hop  Sing  next  to  a 
garage  on  the  main  street  of  such  a  village !  An 
anachronism  that  one  finds  it  hard  to  understand. 
There  are  old  fishermen  here  and  roundabout  who 
have  never  been  to  New  York,  no,  not  once  in 
all  their  lives;  yet  they  would  tell  one  they  had 
had  a  pleasant  time  of  it,  and  would  not  count 
the  years  as  lost  which  they  have  spent  in  this 
venerable  village. 

An  ancient,  tired  town  by  the  water's-edge, 
Dreaming  away  its  life  in  the  afternoon. 

A  shadowy,  weary  ghost  behind  a  hedge, 
Under  the  light  of  the  moon. 

A  sad,  old-fashioned  woman  in  a  shawl, 

Behind  drawn  curtains  when  the  twilight  nears. 

A  stiff,  prim  matron  at  life's  carnival, 
Yet  with  something  that  endears. 
l6o 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

Ernest  and  I  had  delightful  friends  at  Sag 
Harbor,  whither  we  went  by  train  one  perfect 
morning,  the  kind  of  friends  who,  knowing  they 
were  not  to  be  at  home  on  this  particular  day, 
nevertheless  left  word  with  Sarah,  their  marvel- 
ous cook,  to  prepare  a  luncheon  for  us  that  we 
knew  would  be  fit  for  Lucullus,  and  bade  us  stop 
without  fail  at  their  cottage  and  make  it  our 
own. 

And  we  did.  They  lived  on  Hog's  Neck,  just 
across  a  little  bridge,  and  the  water  kissed  their 
lawn,  so  that  they  could  go  out  for  a  swim  di- 
rectly from  the  house  and  sit  down  to  luncheon 
in  their  bathing-suits.  They  had  a  view  that 
would  delight  the  soul  of  any  one,  and  I  can 
think  of  nothing  finer  than  to  spend  honeyed 
afternoons  on  their  veranda,  doing  nothing  at  all. 

We  left  a  note  of  thanks  for  Frank  and  Bertha 
Case,  and  we  wanted  to  embrace  Sarah,  so  lav- 
ishly had  she  fed  us ;  but  the  afternoon  was  mov- 
ing on,  and  there  was  some  walking  to  be  done 
before  we  reached  a  place  where  we  could  sleep 
that  night. 

161 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Hog's  Neck  is  real  country,  and  the  road  leads 
straight  to  a  primitive  ferry.  Upon  the  rocking 
little  craft  perhaps  three  automobiles,  by  much 
maneuvering,  could  huddle,  and  about  a  dozen 
passengers;  and  when  I  asked  the  boys  who  ran 
it  how  often  they  made  the  trip,  they  answered 
in  all  honesty,  "Oh,  as  often  as  any  one  signals 
from  the  shore."  The  strip  of  water  that  sep- 
arates Hog's  Neck  from  Shelter  Island  is  scarcely 
a  stone's  throw  in  width,  and  it  is  like  crossing 
a  miniature  English  Channel  to  get  over.  The 
water,  choppy,  and  trying  to  be  exceedingly  dis- 
agreeable and  rough,  reminds  one  of  a  kitten  imi- 
tating a  tiger.  If  we  had  been  in  a  little  back- 
woods region  of  Georgia  we  could  n't  have  found 
a  more  archaic  ferry  or  one  more  enchantingly 
simple. 

The  shores  are  deeply  wooded  on  both  sides, 
and  here  Long  Island  bears  another  aspect,  and 
one  can  scarcely  believe  that  this  is  part  of  the 
same  island  that  is  low  and  flat  and  dusty  and  at 
times  fashionably  foolish,  or  foolishly  fashion- 
able, as  one  prefers.  This  is  one  of  the  great 

162 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

charms  of  the  place — that  it  is  so  different  in 
different  localities,  and  the  unexpected  greets 
one  at  every  turn.  Who  was  it  that  said  that 
water,  to  a  landscape,  is  what  eyes  are  to  a  hu- 
man face?  There  are  so  many  beautiful  blue 
eyes  on  Long  Island  that  the  wanderer  is  always 
sure  of  expression  and  animation  in  the  counte- 
nance of  the  country. 

If  one  should  wish  to  leave  Sag  Harbor  by 
another  route  than  ours,  I  can  recommend  a  back 
road,  leaving  the  main  street  of  the  town  on  the 
left,  that  takes  one  to  Southampton  and  all  the 
points  in  that  direction.  Noyack  Bay  and  its 
snug  inlets  and,  later,  Little  Peconic  Bay  can 
be  seen  through  the  thick  trees,  and  one  can  ride 
or  walk  here  without  meeting  a  soul.  Once  in  a 
while  there  will  be  a  cluster  of  farm-houses,  and, 
miraculously,  a  shop  of  some  sort,  like  a  rose  in 
a  forest.  But  these  will  be  but  momentary  hints 
of  civilization.  I  trudged  this  road  once  with 
Peb,  the  companion  of  many  a  loafing  trip,  and 
we  both  said  we  had  seldom  come  upon  a  more 
happily  sequestered  trail,  and  I  remember  we 

165 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

wondered  why  motorists  did  not  use  it  more  fre- 
quently. But  of  course  then  it  would  quite  lose 
its  charm,  and  simply  become  like  any  other  thor- 
oughfare, a  scenic  railway  for  the  shouting  multi- 
tude. I  recall  a  turning  where  we  were  in  doubt 
as  to  which  way  to  proceed,  so  we  asked  a  farmer 
who  happened  at  that  moment  to  come  out  of  his 
woodshed,  delighted,  I  think,  to  see  a  human 
face.  There  was  one  other  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  we  asked  him  where  we  were. 

"Oh,  you  can  call  this  Skunk's  Corners,  I  guess. 
It  ain't  got  no  name."  And  then  he  politely  di- 
rected us,  and  told  us,  as  he  leaned  over  the  fence, 
seemingly  eager  to  go  on  talking,  that  he  was 
one  of  those  many  farmers  who  had  never  had 
the  courage  to  make  their  way  to  the  big  city. 

But  this  road  was  not  ours  to-day.  We  were 
going  across  to  the  north  shore,  and  after  the  first 
ferry  we  knew  there  would  be  another.  Shelter 
Island  is  full  of  romantic  suggestion.  Almost  in 
the  center  of  it  there  is  a  tangled  old  graveyard, 
a  veritable  Spoon  River  cemetery,  with  tumbling 
headstones  placed  here  many  decades  ago,  at  a 

166 


Shelter  Island 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

period  when  parents  evidently  opened  the  family 
Bible  when  a  child  came  into  the  world  and 
selected  the  name  for  it  that  the  finger  first  fell 
upon ;  for  here  sleeps  many  a  Moses,  Esther,  Sam- 
uel, and  Daniel,  and  there  were  likewise  such 
quaint,  old-fashioned  names  as  Abbie,  Calvin,  Je- 
mima, Hepzibah,  Caleb,  Phoebe,  and  Asenath. 
At  Shelter  Island  Heights  there  stands  a  rather 
grand  hotel  that  seems  to  be  filled  all  summer,  for 
there  are  good  fishing  and  sailing  along  these  de- 
lightful shores,  and  many  large  craft  seek  safety 
here  during  storms,  and  thus  is  accounted  for  the 
island's  beautifully  practical  name.  City  people 
fish  from  the  piers,  and  Ernest  and  I  saw  dozens 
of  catches  within  five  or  ten  minutes.  Indeed,  it 
was  so  easy  that  it  soon  wearied  us,  if  not  the 
fishermen,  for  I  prefer  a  little  more  uncertainty 
in  any  undertaking.  The  whitecaps  tossed  on  the 
bay,  and  the  water  fairly  churned  and  seethed  as 
we  waited  for  the  larger  ferry.  Down  on  our 
right  lay  Manhanset,  where  there  used  to  be  a 
fine  hotel  until  it  was  burned  to  ashes  about  three 
years  ago.  Now  there  is  a  club-house  in  its  place. 

169 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

You  can  reach  Greenport  in  about  five  minutes, 
a  sleepy  town  at  the  railroad's  end,  a  full  stop, 
a  period,  as  it  were;  yet  there  are  snatches  of  a 
sentence  beyond  it,  and  if  the  words  do  not  piece 
together  properly,  that  is  because  few  people  take 
the  trouble  to  hear  them. 

Now,  Ernest  is  an  actor,  and  he  has  also  been 
on  the  screen.  Therefore  I  was  not  surprised  on 
this  out-of-the-way  and  tossing  ferry  to  have  a 
total  stranger  come  up  to  him  and  tell  him  how 
much  he  had  liked  him  in  a  certain  part.  An 
actor  never  quite  gets  away  from  the  world;  he 
is  everybody's  friend  if  he  is  at  all  popular,  and 
even  his  profile  is  not  his  own.  But  I  was  hardly 
prepared  for  a  second  recognition,  coming  so  soon 
after  the  first,  when  we  walked  up  from  the 
wharf  through  a  street  in  Greenport.  Here  a 
young  man  of  pleasant  mien  most  cordially  hailed 
him  by  name,  and  took  us  both  immediately  into 
his  general  store  (though  I  did  not  matter  at  all), 
where  everything  from  jewelry  and  clocks  to  plows 
and  rubber  gloves  was  for  sale.  Trade  was  a 
trifle  dull  that  afternoon,  and  Ned  was  lonesome, 

170 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

no  doubt,  and  full  of  talk.  He  turned  out  to  be 
the  former  dresser  of  stars  like  Nat  Goodwin  and 
Shelley  Hull,  and  when  these  two  actors  had  died, 
he  left  the  theater,  though  he  loved  it,  married 
a  motion-picture  actress,  and  opened  a  shop  in 
this  far-off  town.  To  see  an  actor  in  the  flesh 
on  this  quiet  street  brought  back  with  a  rush  the 
scent  and  memory  of  scenery  and  cosmetics,  and 
he  just  could  not  help  dragging  Ernest  in  and 
talking  over  old  stage-times.  One  could  sense 
a  latent  and  wistful  craving  for  the  theater, 
though  he  pretended  to  be  enamoured  of  his  trade. 
Yet  he  allowed  customers  to  wait,  I  noticed,  while 
he  chatted  on  with  his  important  friend.  Thus 
do  our  scenes  shift,  and  we  find  new  sets  in  which 
to  go  on  with  our  performance,  such  as  it  is, 
whenever  the  Prompter  directs  us. 

Greenport  is  full  of  ship-chandlers,  and  tall 
masts  rock  in  the  bay.  In  the  winter-time  the 
town  virtually  depends  upon  scallops  and  oysters 
for  its  livelihood,  and  the  fishermen  go  out  in 
hordes  and  come  back  laden  with  spoils.  In 
November  there  is  always  plenty  of  duck-shoot- 

171 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

ing  around  Greenport,  and  it  is  no  extraordinary 
achievement  for  one  man  to  bring  home  two 
hundred  birds  a  day.  When  a  town  is  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  New  York,  the  people  do  not 
run  in  and  out  very  often.  A  year  may  pass  be- 
fore they  go  up  to  the  city.  And  so  they  make 
their  own  lives  in  their  own  locality;  and  now 
with  the  long  arm  of  the  motion-picture  theaters 
reaching  into  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  world, 
there  is  no  excuse  for  lonely  evenings.  These 
theaters  are  patronized  to  the  point  of  suffoca- 
tion, and  on  the  enchanting  moonlit  night  when 
we  should  have  walked  down  country  roads 
Ernest  and  I,  through  force  of  habit,  went  to 
view  what  turned  out  to  be  an  atrocious  film. 
We  noted  the  long  line  of  cars  outside  the  hall — 
as  long  as  a  string  at  the  opera,  truly — and 
thought  again  of  the  responsibility  of  the  makers 
of  the  unspoken  drama.  But  what  a  story  we 
sat  through,  with  only  one  beautiful  woman's 
face  to  redeem  it !  We  were  not  a  little  ashamed 
of  ourselves  for  sitting  there  in  the  darkness,  for 
one  of  the  tragedies  of  living  in  a  great  city  is 

172 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

the  fact  that  seldom  can  we  view  the  moon  as 
she  should  be  seen.  "That  pale  maiden,"  as 
Shelley  called  her,  requires,  like  all  magnificent 
things,  the  right  frame,  the  right  setting,  for  a 
perfect  revelation  of  her  loveliness.  In  the  coun- 
try the  wide  expanse  around  us  gives  the  oppor- 
tunity we  need  to  see  her  charms.  The  long, 
narrow  corridors  of  town  streets  half  conceal  her 
wonder,  and  too  soon  she  sails  over  the  roof-tops 
and  behind  the  clustered  chimney-pots  when  we 
look  up  from  some  crowded  thoroughfare,  hoping 
for  a  glimpse  of  her  serenity.  Moreover,  smoke 
may  rise,  like  a  veil,  and  the  moon,  unaware  of 
our  eagerness,  may  coquettishly  hide  behind  it. 
She  should  know  that  she  is  hardly  the  type  of 
woman,  though  she  is  very  old,  who  requires  arti- 
ficial aids  to  set  off  her  glory. 

I  often  wonder  if  those  who  live  in  the  coun- 
try are  aware  of  the  riches  they  possess  in  such 
abundance.  A  moonlight  night  in  July  or  Au- 
gust is  anything  but  lovely  in  the  city.  Out 
where  the  hills  rise  or  the  plains  expand  or  water 
whispers,  the  world  is  drenched  in  a  cascade  of 

173 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

beauty,  and  sometimes  the  magic  is  such  that  it 
makes  the  heart  ache.  Only  for  an  instant  does 
the  moonlight  rest  on  the  iron  streets,  but  for 
long  hours  it  floods  the  valleys  where  the  coun- 
try folk  are  privileged  to  dwell,  and  on  many 
a  cool  cottage  it  tumbles  in  lavish  Niagaras  of 
peace.  Yet  "in  such  a  night"  we  sat  in  a  stuffy 


movie ! 


Orient  Point  is  the  real  period  on  Long  Island's 
north  shore,  just  as  Montauk  Point  thus  punc- 
tuates the  south  shore.  The  next  morning  Ernest 
and  I  determined  to  get  there.  Never  was  there 
a  more  perfect  day,  with  diamonds  dropping  on 
the  sound  and  in  the  bay.  Just  after  East  Ma- 
rion is  reached  there  is  a  strip  of  land  so  narrow 
that  Orient  Harbor  and  the  wide  sound  almost 
meet.  In  heavy  storms  the  waves  all  but  cross 
the  road,  and  sometime  we  may  have  an  Orient 
Island,  beginning  with  Terry  Point  and  extending 
the  few  miles  eastward.  A  heavy  stone  wall  de- 
lays the  seemingly  inevitable  separation,  but  it 
may  crumble  in  a  gale  of  violence  and  cause 
Orient  Point  to  be  lonelier  even  than  it  now  is. 

174 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

For  the  hotel  is  vacant — a  long,  low,  brown  build- 
ing as  forlorn  as  a  deserted  railroad.  Its  closed 
eyes  tell  the  passer-by  it  is  sleeping  in  the  shad- 
ows, and  so  few  motorists  get  out  this  far  that 
there  is  nothing  to  disturb  its  slumbers.  It  is  a 
pity  that  they  will  not  push  toward  this  region, 
for  the  farm-lands  are  lovely,  and  the  clean  little 
homes  are  in  refreshing  contrast  to  some  of  the 
statelier  mansions  one  can  grow  so  weary  of. 

We  were  told  of  Hallock's  model  farm,  with  its 
overhead  system  of  irrigation,  run  by  a  man  of 
ideas  and  his  three  sons.  Potatoes  and  Brussels 
sprouts  are  the  chief  vegetables  raised,  and  it  is 
a  sight  to  see  long  rows  of  plants  with  apparently 
endless  lines  of  pipe  above  them,  with  clever  ar- 
rangements for  the  turning  on  of  water.  The 
extensive  farm  runs  to  the  edge  of  Gardiner's 
Bay,  where  the  owner  has  his  own  wharf,  his  own 
boats  for  transporting  his  crops  direct  to  the  mar- 
kets of  New  York.  Another  young  farmer  in 
this  neighborhood,  where  the  soil  is  rich  and  fer- 
tile, earned,  the  legend  runs,  upward  of  thirty 
thousand  dollars  in  one  season;  and  if  this  is 

175 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

true  and  I  am  unconsciously  creating  a  boom  in 
real  estate,  I  hope  I  shall  not  spoil  the  country 
for  those  already  happily  established  there.  Both 
Orient  and  East  Marion  are  fine  little  villages, 
and  I  would  not  care  to  see  them  ruined  by  a 
sudden  influx  of  passionate  pilgrims  determined 
to  grow  rich  and  stay  forever. 

The  path  to  the  point  is  much  like  that  on  the 
south  shore,  narrow  and  crooked;  and  when  you 
arrive  at  the  tip  of  the  land,  the  sense  of  being 
monarch  of  all  you  survey  comes  over  you  thrill- 
ingly.  In  the  blue  distance  lies  Plum  Island, 
with  Fort  Terry  like  a  sleeping  lion  upon  it;  and 
in  between  the  brownish-red  lighthouse,  resting, 
apparently,  on  a  single  rock,  yet  impervious  to  the 
crashing  waves. 

Some  campers  had  pitched  a  tent  on  the  lone- 
some shore  of  the  point,  and  no  doubt  fared  well, 
with  fresh  vegetables  and  fruit  easily  purchasable 
roundabout,  and  all  the  fish,  and  more,  they  could 
catch  in  the  sea. 

Near  East  Marion  is  St.  Thomas's  home  for 
city  children,  where  seventy-five  youngsters  can 

176 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

be  accommodated  at  one  time.  They  come  in 
relays  every  two  weeks,  and  go  back  to  town 
brown  and  ruddy,  plump  and  spruce. 

The  next  town  to  Greenport  of  any  size  is  the 
beautiful  old  town  of  Southold,  which,  five  years 
ago,  celebrated  its  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anni- 
versary with  a  pageant  during  several  days  of 
festivity.  The  Rev.  John  Youngs  came  from 
England  three  hundred  years  ago  and  built  the 
first  house  in  Southold.  This  ancient  building 
is  still  standing,  just  off  the  main  street,  and  it 
was  a  German  innkeeper,  a  man  who  had  been 
in  Southold  twenty-three  years,  who  directed  us 
to  it.  When  people  settle  in  this  charming  vil- 
lage, you  see,  they  generally  remain;  and  it  is  no 
wonder,  for  the  broad  avenues  are  sheltered  by 
tremendous  arching  trees,  and  quiet  broods  here, 
and  peace  is  the  town's  best  companion.  The 
Presbyterian  minister  has  also  shepherded  his 
flock  for  twenty-three  years,  and  the  ivy-grown 
cemetery,  like  the  one  on  Shelter  Island,  is  a  per- 
petual reminder  of  vanished  days,  with  Mehe- 
table,  Temperance,  Lorenzo,  Salter,  Dency,  Abi- 

177 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

jah,  Harmony,  Arminda,  Abner,  Susa,  Thaddeus, 
Erastus,  and  China  (doubtless  the  son  of  an  old 
sea-captain)  all  resting  serenely  while  the  world 
wags  along.  And  a  certain  Samuel,  so  his  tomb- 
stone informed  us,  was  "gathered  to  his  fathers 
like  a  shock  of  com  fully  ripe." 

As  Ernest  and  I  passed  out  of  it  on  our  way  to 
Cutchogue  (which  sounds  like  a  sneeze,  but  is 
really  a  nice  little  town),  we  heard  Caruso's 
voice  coming  from  a  phonograph  in  a  poor  man's 
home,  a  modern  note,  literally,  in  a  quaint  old 
village  that  has  snuggled  under  its  trees  these 
many  years. 

We  shall  always  hold  Southold  in  specially 
happy  remembrance,  for  it  was  there  while  sit- 
ting on  the  porch  of  the  inn,  that  a  young  man, 
overhearing  us  speak  of  our  walking  trip,  straight- 
way offered,  if  we  felt  tired,  to  take  us  on  to  the 
next  village  in  his  runabout;  and  when  we  de- 
clined, with  thanks,  his  unexpected  offer,  we  dis- 
covered that  he  made  his  suggestion  despite  the 
fact  that  in  a  short  time  he  was  going  to  take  a 
charming  young  lady  riding  in  the  opposite  di- 

178 


"  Caruso's  voice  coming  from  a  phonograph  " 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

rection.  Courtesy  to  two  strangers  could  surely 
go  no  further,  and  when  we  saw  him  dash  hap- 
pily away  with  loveliness  beside  him,  we  cer- 
tainly wished  him  well.  But  a  town  as  nice  as 
Southold  would  be  sure  to  contain  just  such  nice 
folk. 

After  we  had  left  Southold  and  walked  sev- 
eral miles,  we  stopped  under  a  tree  to  refresh 
ourselves.  Few  motors  were  out  on  this  lovely 
afternoon,  and  we  were  in  no  hurry  at  all. 
Ernest  is  English,  and  though  we  had  had  a  deli- 
cious luncheon  at  Southold,  he  craved  his  tea, 
and  began  to  ruminate  on  the  lovely  inns  of  Eng- 
land, where  one  could  always  drop  in  and  get 
some  bread  and  cheese  and  bitter  beer,  if  nothing 
else.  The  mere  mention  of  these  delicacies  made 
my  mouth  water. 

"There  is  nothing  to  do,"  I  said  to  my  reminis- 
cent friend,  "except  to  press  on  to  Riverhead, 
maybe  stealing  or  begging  a  ride;  for  there's  not 
a  place  along  here  where  we  can  get  even  a 
snack." 

Indeed,  the  road  was  a  canonical  one,  with 
181 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

little  to  interest  us  save  now  and  then  a  clump 
of  beautiful  trees.  I  was  hot  and  dusty,  too, 
and  suddenly,  for  no  reason  at  all,  but  prompted, 
no  doubt,  by  the  same  imp  that  had  lured  us 
into  the  movies,  I  wanted  to  see  a  New  York 
paper.  I  wanted  it,  I  suppose,  because  I  knew 
I  could  not  get  it;  and  Ernest  began  to  laugh  at 
the  strings  that  still  held  me  to  the  city,  country 
pilgrim  though  I  pretended  to  be.  And  he  re- 
minded me  of  that  line  of  Hazlitt's,  in  the  essay 
"On  Going  a  Journey,"  "I  go  out  of  town  in  order 
to  forget  the  town  and  all  that  is  in  it." 

"Ah,"  I  answered,  "but  does  n't  he  also  speak 
of  the  advantages  of  walking  alone4?  Talkative 
companions,  he  held,  were — " 

"I  won't  speak  all  the  rest  of  the  way,  if  that 's 
how  you — and  Hazlitt — feel,"  Ernest  answered, 
with  a  smile  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth;  and 
though  later  I  begged  for  his  clever  conversation, 
he  was  adamant  and  would  not  converse  at  all 
until  we  got  to  a  cross-roads  near  Mattituck. 
Here  was  an  inn,  not  comparable  with  the  Eng- 


182 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

lish  taverns,  of  course,  where  people  "met  to 
talk,"  a  sign  informed  us,  punning  outrageously. 

"The  very  place  to  break  your  silence,"  I  sug- 
gested to  my  friend;  and,  laughing,  we  went  in 
for  tea. 

Two  young  ladies  had  a  table  near  us,  and  I 
gathered  from  such  scraps  of  their  conversation 
as  came  to  us  that  they  were  librarians,  out  on  a 
jaunt  also,  but  in  a  car.  They  left  the  room 
first,  and  Ernest  and  I,  sitting  by  the  window, 
could  see  them  as  they  stepped  into  the  smallest 
insect  of  the  road  I  have  ever  beheld — nothing, 
literally,  but  a  child's  express-wagon,  with  a 
home-made  attachment  in  the  nature  of  a  steering- 
wheel,  and  a  mysterious  little  engine  concealed 
somewhere  which  caused  the  wagon  to  vibrate 
down  the  road.  They  rattled  off,  their  tiny  suit- 
case on  the  back,  as  happy,  apparently,  as  we. 
They  saw  our  patronizing  smiles  as  they  went 
down  the  path,  and  smiled  back  good-naturedly, 
not  at  all  flirtatiously.  I  suppose  they  guessed 
we  were  laughing  at  their  makeshift  conveyance, 


183 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

but  they  had  the  air  of  being  used  to  that  sort 
of  thing  and  seemed  not  a  whit  embarrassed  at 
what  we  thought. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  riding  in  a  fine  motor  be- 
cause we  had  dared  to  ask  a  lift,  we  encountered 
these  girls  on  the  road.  They  had  had  engine 
trouble,  and,  recognizing  us,  blushed  with  morti- 
fication. I  suppose  they  imagined  we  were  in  our 
own  car,  and  we  were  just  snobbish  enough  to 
like  them  to  think  so. 

Our  triumph  was  short-lived,  however.  Two 
miles  or  so  farther  on,  our  host  dropped  us,  as 
he  turned  to  the  right  and  our  path  lay  straight 
ahead.  And  it  was  not  long  before  we  heard  a 
strange  rattle  behind  us,  and  those  gay  librarians 
sailed  by  us,  waving  their  handkerchiefs  and  call- 
ing out,  "Say,  who's  lucky  now5?"  It  was  we 
who  were  humiliated  as  they  faded  into  the  land- 
scape, going,  I  should  say,  not  fewer  than  twenty- 
five  miles  an  hour  in  their  homely  little  box-car, 
like  so  much  pretty  freight.  But  just  before  they 
disappeared,  and  knowing,  perhaps,  that  they 


184 


Riverhead 


SAG  HARBOR  AND  NORTH  SHORE 

would  never  see  us  again,  one  of  them  blew  us  a 
kiss — yes,  fearlessly  she  did  it,  this  prim  librarian 
off  on  a  summer  holiday ! 

In  Riverhead  there  is  a  lovely  little  garden 
which  the  motorist  will  be  sure  to  miss.  That 
is  one  of  the  compensations  of  walking — you  come 
upon  spots  of  beauty  almost  accidentally.  For 
instance,  had  I  not  gone  into  a  chemist's  shop 
for  some  tooth-paste  and,  in  coming  out,  looked 
down  the  street,  I  would  never  have  caught  a 
glimpse  of  water  that  beckoned  me  from  the  road. 
A  private  dwelling  stood  at  the  intersection  of 
two  paths,  and  at  first  I  was  afraid  I  was  tres- 
passing; but  no  signs  deterred  my  progress,  and 
soon  I  came  to  this  miniature  Cliff  Walk,  sur- 
rounding a  lake  at  the  river's  head,  with  a  dam 
flowing  toward  the  village,  and  flowers  blooming 
in  rich  profusion  all  about.  The  backs  of  sev- 
eral charming  houses  looked  out  upon  this  en- 
chanting enclosure,  and  along  the  narrow  way 
moved  young  lovers  in  happy  pairs.  Riverhead 
itself  is  nothing  but  a  stereotyped,  dull  town,  with 


187 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

a  big  jail,  a  monument  or  two,  and  several  con- 
ventional hotels;  but  this  spot  lies  like  a  jewel 
on  its  breast. 


188 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    MIDDLE    OF    THE    SLICE 

WE  had  intended,  on  another  jaunt,  to 
go  from  Riverhead  to  Wading  River, 
touching  the  villages  roundabout  and  getting 
glimpses  of  the  Sound  in  all  its  lavish  color,  and 
working  our  way  to  Oyster  Bay.  This  time  I 
was  with  Peb,  and  once  more  the  weather  could 
not  have  been  finer — crystal  clear  in  the  morn- 
ing, yet  warm,  with  now  and  then  a  haze ;  for  we 
were  deep  in  August,  and  the  world  sometimes 
drew  a  veil  around  itself  on  these  torrid  after- 
noons. 

But  the  road  from  Riverhead  was  anything  but 
exciting.  It  led  us  to  a  wide,  bleak,  dusty,  un- 
developed, seemingly  endless  highway,  and  we 
grew  mighty  weary  of  our  tramping.  There  is  no 
sense  in  trying  to  make  headway  when  one  feels 
like  this.  The  map  had  not  told  us  how  stupid 
this  region  was  to  be;  so  we  made  up  our  minds 

189 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

we  would  hail  the  first  passer-by  on  wheels  and 
crave  the  blessing  of  a  lift.  To  get  to  a  town 
was  the  only  wise  thing  to  do.  There  we  could 
loiter  about  in  the  shade,  and  perhaps  reach  the 
water  and  take  delight  in  looking  on  long,  sandy 
stretches  of  beach. 

But  travelers  on  wheels  evidently  knew  this 
forlorn  and  scraggly  precinct  and  would  have 
none  of  it.  I  don't  recall,  in  all  our  journeying 
along  main  roads,  that  there  were  ever  fewer  cars 
rolling  by  us.  However,  after  we  had  been  mak- 
ing the  best  of  it  for  several  miles,  a  man  came 
along  in  a  handsome  car,  and  we  looked  long- 
ingly at  the  empty  back  seat  of  his  machine,  and 
hailed  him  politely.  Instead  of  pausing,  he  took 
on  added  speed,  and  whizzed  forward  in  such 
haste  that  he  left  us  railing  at  him  in  a  cloud  of 
thick  dust.  I  hope  he  had  a  breakdown  or  that 
the  village  constable  arrested  him  for  speeding, 
for  I  never  wanted  a  ride  more,  and  I  was  parched 
with  thirst.  It  isn't  pleasant  to  contemplate 
such  a  selfish  soul  when  one  is  footsore  and  hot 
and  hungry  all  at  once. 

190 


"  We  grew  mighty  weary" 


THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  SLICE 

But  our  next  motorist,  if  one  cares  to  call  a 
butcher  in  a  cart  by  so  high-toned  a  name,  was  far 
more  human,  even  though  his  business  was  the 
unpleasant  one  of  killing  cattle.  He  took  us 
aboard  with  an  exceeding  warmth  of  spirit. 
Maybe  he  was  lonesome;  but  he  said  anywhere 
we  wanted  to  go,  he  'd  take  us  there.  We  liked 
him  for  that, — who  would  n't? — and  when  the 
road  forked,  and  he  slowed  down  to  let  us  decide 
whether  we  wanted  to  go  on  to  Wading  River 
or  continue  with  him  to  Smithtown,  we  of  course 
told  him  Smithtown  was  good  enough  for  any 
sane  traveler,  particularly  as  it  was  his  village, 
and  he  had  praised  it  as  I  have  heard  few  resi- 
dents praise  their  own  birthplace.  Smithtown 
was,  according  to  him,  the  finest  little  place  on  the 
whole  island,  and  we  would  n't  be  making  any 
mistake  if  we  spent  the  night  there.  Hotels? 
Of  course;  several  of  them,  and  he,  being  an  old 
inhabitant,  would  take  us  personally  to  which 
ever  inn  we  chose,  and  make  sure  we  were  put 
up  comfortably.  A  thriving  place,  a  most  pro- 
gressive town,  full  of  nice  people.  Oh,  yes, 

193 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Smithtown  was  O.  K.,  and  he  did  n't  care  who 
heard  him  say  so,  and  he  'd  tell  the  world.  He 
did  n't  mean  to  be  boastful,  but — 

Thus  he  rambled  proudly  on  as  we  drove 
through  desolate  country,  and  almost  wished  we 
had  gone  our  own  way.  We  came  at  last  to  the 
entrance  to  Camp  Upton,  now  almost  deserted  of 
soldiers,  but  with  the  rifle-range  still  active. 
Then  we  passed  down  shadowy  roads,  with  here 
and  there  a  farm-house  that  seemed  miles  from 
anywhere,  for  this  is  a  sparsely  settled  district. 
A  gorgeous  sunset  was  before  us,  and  as  the  twi- 
light came  down  like  a  slow  curtain  at  the  opera, 
we  wondered  why  more  people  did  not  know 
about  this  fine  road  through  the  middle  of  the 
island,  and  use  it  instead  of  the  more  sociable 
thoroughfares  that  lead  to  town.  We  went  by 
beautiful  Artists'  Lake,  through  Coram,  Selden, 
and  New  Village,  and  I  kept  thinking  that  surely 
the  next  town  must  be  our  destination.  It  was 
getting  chilly,  and  of  course  we  had  no  coats,  and 
our  butcher  did  drive  fast  and  was  everlastingly 
chatty. 

194 


THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  SLICE 

Finally  I  ventured  to  ask  him  how  much  far- 
ther we  had  to  go,  and  he  answered  nonchalantly, 
"Oh,  maybe  eight  or  nine  miles."  But  it  seemed 
to  us  we  must  have  traveled  twenty,  and  it  was 
getting  on  to  half -past  eight,  and  both  of  us 
were  disgracefully  hungry,  when  some  straggling 
houses  at  length  came  in  view.  These,  I  thought 
with  relief,  must  form  the  outskirts  of  humming 
little  Smithtown.  In  a  moment  the  electric  signs 
of  the  movie-theaters  would  greet  our  eyes,  and 
we  would  eat  in  a  brilliantly  lighted  dining-room 
(I  could  visualize  the  typical  American  hotel), 
and  then  we  would  swiftly  fall  into  a  deep  sleep, 
despite  the  fact  that  glittering  signs  winked  in  at 
us  through  our  windows. 

"Are  we  nearing  your  home  town*?"  Ernest  in- 
quired. 

"We  're  in  it,"  our  butcher  replied.  Every 
goose  was  a  swan  to  him.  Instead  of  the  roaring 
main  street  we  had  thought  of,  we  found  our- 
selves in  what  was  virtually  a  pasture,  with 
houses  scattered  all  about  us;  and  in  a  moment 
the  hotel,  around  which  I  had  imagined  trolleys 

195 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

would  heave  and  dash,  was  before  us — a  calm 
somnolent  frame  building  on  a  little  knoll,  with 
only  one  lamp  in  the  window,  and  an  innkeeper 
and  his  wife  who  welcomed  us  with  true  bucolic 
hospitality.  We  were  overjoyed  with  the  silence 
and  the  peace  of  it.  Cobblestones?  We  found 
none  in  Smithtown;  only  soft,  clean,  winding 
streets  and  lovely  trees  and  birds  and  flowers. 

The  country  in  this  neighborhood  is  delightful, 
and  one  can  ramble  about  it  for  miles  and  never 
grow  weary  of  it.  There  are  little  hills  and  cozy 
turnings,  waterfalls  and  sequestered  farm-houses 
and  larger  estates,  some  of  real  magnificence. 

Running  through  the  middle  of  Long  Island 
is  the  fascinating  line  of  the  Motor  Parkway, 
built  several  years  ago  for  the  delight  of  the 
motorist  who  revels  in  high  speed,  and  is  happy 
only  when  he  has  the  right  of  way.  It  begins 
just  north  of  Floral  Park,  and  leads  direct  to  Lake 
Ronkonkoma,  where  the  French  restaurant  called 
Petit  Trianon  has  been  for  many  seasons,  a  dream 
spot  if  ever  there  was  one.  The  lucky  motorist ! 
How  many  places  there  are  of  mushroom  growth 

196 


>:' 


Smithtown 


THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  SLICE 

that  are  only  for  him !  But  coming  for  luncheon 
at  this  inn,  he  will  be  likely,  being  a  speed  fiend, 
to  go  back  as  he  came,  on  the  glistening  Parkway, 
and  miss  the  rustic  beauties  of  the  town  of  Ron- 
konkoma,  where  Maude  Adams  lives  in  seclusion 
during  the  summer.  So,  while  he  gains  much,  he 
also  loses  a  great  deal;  and,  while  the  king's 
highway  is  beautiful,  like  all  things  kingly  it  is 
lonesome;  and  save  for  an  occasional  toll-gate 
keeper  one  encounters  few  people  on  this  level, 
gleaming  stretch  that  runs  like  a  long,  smooth, 
brown-velvet  ribbon  beneath  the  wheels  of  one's 
car. 

Though  we  missed  the  province  between 
Wading  River  and  Port  Jefferson  and  Setauket 
at  one  time,  we  took  the  trail  on  another  occasion, 
passing  through  such  lovely  villages  as  Shoreham, 
Rocky  Point,  and  Miller's  Place.  The  towns 
themselves,  which  are  very  popular  as  summer 
colonies,  are  not  literally  on  the  water,  but  some 
of  them  reach  out  to  the  Sound,  and  bathing  pa- 
vilions, like  jeweled  fingers,  touch  the  sandy 
shore.  This  has  always  been  for  me  one  of  the 

199 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

high  spots  of  Long  Island,  perhaps  because  I  can 
never  forget  a  paradisial  week  I  spent  here  sev- 
eral years  ago  at  the  lonely  cottage  of  a  friend, 
with  only  one  servant  to  look  after  my  needs.  I 
recall  sunrises  of  tropic  beauty,  and  flaming  sun- 
sets that  could  not  be  matched  even  along  the 
Mediterranean,  and  hours  of  such  complete  soli- 
tude that  I  completely  erased  the  thundering  city 
from  my  brain  and  existed  only  in  a  realm  of 
dreams.  There  was  one  day  of  tapping  rain, 
when  a  roaring  fire  was  necessary,  though  it  was 
summer  then,  too.  For  the  remainder  of  that 
week  I  walked  along  miles  of  sun-smitten  beach, 
as  alone  as  the  first  man  in  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
and  never  again  do  I  expect  such  a  sense  of  calm 
as  came  over  me  then. 


200 


CHAPTER  IX 

OYSTER    BAY    AND    ROUNDABOUT    ROSLYN 

ONE  thinks  of  Long  Island  as  flat.  So  it  is 
in  many  parts;  but  roundabout  Roslyn, 
Oyster  Bay,  and  Locust  Valley,  and  even  at  the 
Westburys,  Old  and  New,  there  are  hills,  if  not 
mountains ;  and  nature  has  been  lavish  in  her  gift 
of  water,  so  that  a  house  built  on  a  rise  of  ground 
commands  a  fine  view,  with  clean  mirrors  reflect- 
ing the  sun  and  moon. 

There  are  no  end  of  by-ways  here,  and  plenty 
of  back  roads  to  ride  horseback.  Often,  in  going 
to  Huntington,  where  William  Faversham  has  a 
home,  I  had  looked  from  the  train  window  as  we 
came  to  Cold  Spring  Harbor,  and  determined  one 
day  to  take  that  shadowy  path  leading  from  the 
station,  so  cool  and  fragrant  did  it  seem.  This  is 
really  one  of  Long  Island's  pleasantest  localities. 
There  is  fashion,  if  you  care  for  it,  and  country 

201 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

simplicity  rubbing  elbows  over  the  fences  and 
hedges,  if  you  want  that. 

The  Piping  Rock  Club  is  here,  with  the  house 
that  Guy  Lowell  designed,  a  club-house  with 
massive  wooden  pillars,  and  sensitively  and  sensi- 
bly conceived.  A  double  polo-field  sprawls  di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  wide  porch,  and  beyond  that 
the  golf-links,  among  the  most  beautiful  in  Amer- 
ica, meander  away.  At  Fox's  Point,  a  few  miles 
down  on  the  north  shore,  is  the  private  bathing- 
beach  for  Piping  Rock  members,  and  the  lanes 
that  lead  to  it,  for  equestrians  and  motorists,  are 
haunted,  cool  hallways,  with  canopies  of  green 
leaves  and  a  soft  carpet  of  earth.  I  do  not  know 
a  prettier  beach,  or  one  where  the  water  looks 
bluer  and  where,  afar,  the  ships  sail  by  so  grace- 
fully. In  this  region  there  are  heavenly  roads, 
and  quaint  thatched  cottages,  and  neat  hedges 
that  make  one  think  of  rural  England. 

At  fashionable  Old  Westbury  there  is  the 
Meadowbrook  Club,  and  polo  is  played  here  dur- 
ing the  season  by  young  men  of  stalwart  frame. 
There  are  hunt  meets,  also,  and  the  whole  country- 

202 


OYSTER  BAY 

side  is  forever  alive  with  sport  of  one  sort  or 
another.  The  late  Robert  Bacon,  once  our  am- 
bassador to  France,  made  his  home  at  Old  West- 
bury,  and  his  widow  and  sons  still  live  there. 
Otto  Kahn  has  a  splendid  villa  not  far  off;  like- 
wise J.  P.  Morgan.  The  locality  is  rich  in  his- 
toric interest. 

Plandome,  Manhasset,  and  Port  Washington, 
particularly  the  latter,  which  is  on  Manhasset 
Bay,  are  charming  spots  in  summer,  and  Sand's 
Point,  jutting0 out  into  the  Sound,  is  beautiful  in 
an  Old- World  way.  Great  Neck  is  a  hive  of 
theatrical  celebrities.  Their  motors  dash  in  and 
out,  and  many  an  actor  commutes  all  the  year 
round  from  here,  finding  it  no  trouble  at  all  to 
reach  his  theater  in  time. 

Of  course  there  are  hundreds  of  little  places  on 
the  south  shore  equally  attractive.  One  thinks 
of  Cedarhurst  and  Lawrence,  prim  with  box 
hedges  and  barbered  grass;  and  if  one  likes  to 
mingle  with  the  crowd,  the  first  spot  that  comes 
to  mind  is  Long  Beach,  with  wheel-chairs  and 
loud  bands  and  jazz,  and  thousands  upon  thou- 

205 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

sands  of  bathers  seeking  what  will  always  seem 
to  me  a  hollow  form  of  pleasure  in  the  thickly 
populated  sea. 

If  for  nothing  else,  Long  Island  would  be  fa- 
mous for  two  things:  it  was  at  West  Hills  that 
Walt  Whitman  was  born,  and  it  is  at  Oyster  Bay 
that  Theodore  Roosevelt  is  buried.  Two  of  the 
greatest  Americans  we  ever  produced!  From 
1836  until  1839  Whitman  published  "The  Long 
Islander"  at  Huntington,  and  later  edited  a  daily 
paper  in  Brooklyn ;  and  for  years  Roosevelt  lived 
at  Sagamore  Hill,  drinking  in  the  wonder  of  the 
harbor  beneath  his  old  home,  finding  it  a  shelter 
in  his  unbelievably  busy  life.  How  many  pil- 
grims came  to  see  him  there !  No  small  town  in 
the  world  is  better  known,  and  the  pilgrims  con- 
tinue to  come;  but  now,  alas!  to  his  final  home 
on  that  hill  in  the  village  he  loved  and  that  loved 
him. 

Alec  and  I  were  two  of  those  pilgrims  on  a  cer- 
tain glorious  summer  day.  Three  thousand  other 
folk  had  happened  to  choose  that  same  morning 
for  a  like  journey,  and  a  few  veterans  of  the 

206 


OYSTER  BAY 

Spanish- American  War  had  come  to  put  a  wreath 
on  the  grave  of  one  of  America's  greatest  men. 
I  saw  Charlie  Lee,  the  colonel's  former  coachman, 
and  later  his  chauffeur,  sitting  by  the  tomb — the 
simplest  but  most  beautiful  stone  I  have  ever 
seen.  There  is  nothing  upon  it  but  these  words: 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

Born  October  27,  1858 

Died  January  6,  1919 

and  his  wife 

EDITH  KERMIT 
Born  August  6,   1861, 

Died 

A  bronze  wreath  rests  at  the  base  of  the  stone, 
and  upon  this  is  engraved  only  this : 

A 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

Hommage 

dela 

Cote  d'Azur 
1'Eclaireur  de  Nice 

Nothing  more!  And  nothing  more  is  needed. 
The  simplicity  of  greatness!  Just  as  he  would 
have  it.  And  if  ever  a  man  who  loved  and  was 

207 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

willing  to  fight  and  die  for  democracy  was  buried 
democratically,  it  is  T.  R.  An  unpretentious, 
almost  scraggly  cemetery  it  is,  with  a  plain  white 
wooden  arch  for  a  gate — the  sort  of  graveyard  in 
which  one  would  least  expect  to  find  the  solemn 
tablet  of  a  great  man.  At  first  I  confess  that  it 
seemed  to  me  too  simple,  too  democratic,  if  such 
a  thing  can  be;  but  after  I  had  stood  before  that 
iron  grating  for  a  while  I  found  myself  thinking 
that  I  would  not  have  had  Theodore  Roosevelt 
buried  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  For  this 
grave  is  a  symbol  of  the  true  America,  a  voice,  as 
it  were,  that  calls  from  the  soil  perpetually,  "I 
was  one  of  you ;  I  am  still  one  of  you,  resting  here 
on  this  quiet  hill." 

And  indeed  he  is.  No  man,  dead,  was  ever 
more  eternally  alive.  Great-heart!  "His  soul 
goes  marching  on." 

Hail,  but  not  farewell,  Theodore  Roosevelt ! 


208 


CHAPTER  X 

DINNER   AMONG   THE    STARS 

summer  night,  having  walked  several 
•*•  miles  from  Oyster  Bay  and  growing  weary 
of  our  tramp,  I  had  a  sudden  inspiration.  We 
would  take  a  train  to  Brooklyn — which,  somehow, 
one  always  forgets  is  on  Long  Island — and  dine 
at  a  certain  roof-garden  I  knew  there.  Alec  was 
just  the  companion  for  such  a  dinner,  for  he  had 
never  in  his  life  been  in  Brooklyn,  never  on  Long 
Island  until  he  walked  with  me  these  few  days, 
having  only  recently  come  from  the  Middle  West. 
He  was  one  of  those  who,  through  the  comic 
papers,  and  from  vaudeville  teams,  had  come  to 
look  upon  Brooklyn  as  nothing  but  a  jest.  Little 
did  he  dream,  as  little  many  a  Manhattanite 
dreams,  that  in  this  really  lovely  annex  of  the 
metropolis  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  restau- 
rants for  miles  about.  And  it  is  easily  reached 
from  any  part  of  New  York. 

209 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

Cool  as  a  ship's  deck,  which  it  was  built  to 
resemble,  was  this  open  room  that  seemed  literally 
to  rest  among  the  stars.  We  gasped  at  the  pan- 
orama spread  beneath  us  and  around  us.  A 
blood-red  moon,  like  a  huge  Japanese  lantern, 
hung  in  the  heavens.  As  though  we  could  touch 
them  if  we  would,  the  sky-scrapers  of  Manhattan 
stood  in  gigantic  rows,  with  the  silver  ribbon  of 
the  river  at  their  feet.  The  bridges,  like  cob- 
webs or  delicate  lace — it  was  hard  to  realize  they 
were  thundering*  corridors  of  traffic,  built  of  stern 
iron  and  steel — were  just  beginning  to  blossom 
with  thousands  of  lights;  and  the  stars,  jealous 
of  this  lesser  glory,  came  out  of  the  black  velvet 
of  the  sky  in  rapid  battalions.  Soon  the  night 
was  a  luminous  globe,  with  ourselves  in  the  cen- 
ter of  it,  amazed  and  appalled  at  the  magnificence 
around  us.  This  glowing  world;  was  it  a  dream? 
White  sails  spread  themselves  on  the  water,  and 
ferryboats,  like  tiny  worms  of  flame,  crawled 
into  the  purple  wharves,  slipping  authentically 
where  they  belonged.  Far  down  the  bay  shone 
one  mystical  star — the  torch  of  the  Statue  of  Lib- 

210 


DINNER  AMONG  THE  STARS 

erty;  and  Staten  Island's  home-lights  began  to 
twinkle  and  shine.  A  thin  cloud  would  flash  now 
and  then  over  the  face  of  the  moon,  which  kept 
rising  on  the  tide  of  the  darkness,  erased  only 
momentarily  from  our  vision,  and  then  coming 
triumphantly  forth  again. 

It  was  an  evening  almost  too  wonderful  to  be 
true.  Vaguely  we  heard  the  band  behind  us — 
soft,  insinuating  music  that  rose  and  fell — stringed 
instruments  and  the  swish  of  dancing  feet. 

But  it  was  the  city  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river  that  held  us — that  would  always  hold  us. 
As  though  in  a  dream  we  watched  it,  etched 
against  a  tapestry,  silent  in  its  brutal  strength, 
pitiless  perhaps,  but  kind,  too,  as  a  great  lioness 
is  kind  to  her  brood.  Never  can  one  be  wholly 
free  from  the  power  and  lure  of  Manhattan. 

In  every  sky-scraper  a  multitude  of  lights 
gleamed,  until  finally  these  turrets  of  flame  were 
like  Babylon  on  fire.  Was  this  a  modern  city*? 
Oh,  wonderful  beyond  all  naming  were  the  archi- 
tects who  had  conceived  this  terrible  town  by  the 


211 


LOAFING  DOWN  LONG  ISLAND 

sea,  this  seeming  tumult  of  towers  and  ascending 
steel! 

Who  wrought  these  granite  ghosts  saw  more  than  we 

May  ever  see.     He  saw  pale,  tenuous  lines 

On  some  age-mellowed  shore  where  cities  rose 

Proudly  as  Corinth  or  imperial  Rome ; 

He  saw,  through  mists  of  vision,  Bagdad  leap 

To  immaterial  being,  and  he  sought 

To  snatch  one  curve  from  her  elusive  domes; 

He  saw  lost  Nineveh  and  Babylon, 

And  Tyre,  and  all  the  golden  dreams  of  Greece, 

Columns  and  fanes  that  cannot  be  rebuilt. 

These  are  the  shadows  of  far  nobler  walls, 

The  wraiths  of  ancient  pomp  and  glittering  days, 

Set  here  by  master  minds  and  master  souls, 

Almost  as  wonderful  as  mountains  are, 

Mysterious  as  the  petals  of  a  flower. 


212 


28367 


539725 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


